Purple heather <br />by the old mill, <br />the waterwheel <br />turning impatiently, <br />it never rests. <br />We play, <br />pale children <br />in rags, <br />sharp stones <br />blue glass <br />and thistles, <br />darkish green. <br />Bare feet are cut, <br />a thousand scratches <br />of annual initiation. <br />Behind the barn <br />we stand as boys <br />and hatch new plans <br />for summer days. <br />Courageous words, <br />so full of hope, <br />how soon we will <br />be touching <br />those sassy, <br />feisty buds of Spring. <br />There would be welcome, <br />hearts would stumble, <br />school blouses bare <br />small hidden treasures. <br />And with each year <br />that passes since <br />a chiffon curtain, <br />youthful pink, <br />descends to change <br />those memories <br />until they suit <br />the pride of men.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/behind-the-old-mill/
