A windmill turning in the rain,
Backwards and forwards and round again,
With clanking arms that strive and strain.
Across the muddy road from me,
A wet tin roof and chimneys three
As red as polished porphyry.
Tall poplars past the ice-black flags,
Round-shouldered in the wind, like hags
Trembling in all their tattered rags.
A waggon splashing up the road,
With silver milk-cans safely stowed;
A burly man upon the load.
Greyness that gathers like a tide
And drowns the plains immense and wide:
Greyness without - greyness inside!
My thoughts that turn with gusty pain,
Driven around and back again.
Are like the windmill in the rain!
First published in The Bulletin, 15 January 1925
