The rumble of the millstone|
Shakes the floor as I step in,
And the smell of meal and flour
Dusts the air that I breathe in.
This Old Mill brought folks together
And still stands in my hometown;
Oftentimes, my Grandpa came
Just to have his harvest ground.
The old miller stood there working
In his faded overalls,
Wiping sweat with his bandana
As he labored within these walls.
The old men,, they sat and chatted
As the miller ground their corn;
It was a time to catch up old folks
Who had died and who’d been born.
Generations come and go here,
But we’re linked, and you can feel
All the years mingling together
When you step inside the Mill.
copyright 2000 by moleta ruth mccarter. all rights reserved.
