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Charlotte Peters Rock - Poetry

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

Windmill

1.12.92

As windmills go,
it was too far back to hit,
too distant for deriding at full tilt,
like Don Quixote and Cervantes.

Its blood, its life, should spill onto the ground.

This windmill's spinning arms will still go round
and rise, beyond my wishes and advances,
not tilted full, nor tilted to the hilt.

But at least this windmill,
just a little bit,
was pushed off balance as I turned to go.

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Posted by A Careful Harvesting of Words at 09:39

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    • ▼  November (35)
      • Where's the party?
      • Jade for ever
      • Lapis lazuli
      • Time away
      • The point
      • Windmill
      • A degree of thought
      • What degree?
      • There is no money..
      • Pantry interloper
      • Rabbit Trap
      • November Swans
      • 2am hare
      • A tail to wag
      • Canadas
      • Anarchy
      • Destroying History in Tillya Tepe
      • The End of Atlantis
      • Apprentice to The Telling
      • Pazyryk Chief
      • The Wiser Man
      • Bronze Mirror of the Ice Maiden
      • The Magic Lake
      • The Warrior of Siberia
      • Kreka of Vyatichi
      • If I'm corrupt..
      • Curfew
      • Frozen Princess
      • Leaving the ocean
      • Chinchorro teaching
      • Chinchorro child lament
      • Chinchorro at the shore
      • An eye on the void
      • Bluer than the moon
      • Justice

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