As the soft wind blows through the crops the blades above slowly rotate, lapping shadows across the path below. Inside, in the absence of its creator the mill continues to drive its stone across the slab, hungry for substance to pulverise.
Far above the creaking continues in protest of the mechanical strain, ceaseless and unchanging, although rumour has it that on quiet nights you can just make out the otherworldly sounds of its former owner rising from the highest reaches, echoing over the fields.
Scott McKendrick
2020-01-17 15:50:04 +0000 UTC