Mulligan’s Mill

Down towards the river, 
A hawfinch nests over the mill,

Amongst the splintered rafter ends.

Mulligan, always points out, the nest has long since passed.

But Mulligan always speaks from his heart

And never his head.
When the sun is smiling,

No one complains,

Least of all mum.

She gathers sage, primrose and fennel,

And laughs with the robin 

Perched on the old hay scythe at the back of St Cedds.

Such beauty aches inside,

And you want to scream like Boudicca sacking Londinium,

Or one of the unknown women present when our Lord died…

The kind of scream

you only hear and feel inside.
Mulligan was right,

When he said its all passed,

And the more I accept that,

The more I laugh.

At the robin and mum,

Chatting away,

At the sun smiling,

The river singing,

And Mulligan playing harmonica

at the bank side.


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