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