Samuel Lovett
Watermill

The rivers thawed in March that year,
seasons churning round around
like cumbersome wooden spokes.

We hid in one of the sheltered corners
on the low floor of Spear’s grist mill,
listening to the water rushing
chutting through the watermill.

Steady rain had fallen for weeks,
peltering the hard earth before gathering
and rolling down to join the flow.

The wheel turned faster
as water moved more urgently every day,
descending from the tearing hillsides
of dark vales and hidden gorges.

We were alive with a pressure that swelled
and ran wild through the northern woods
surging and spreading in search of open spaces.

It beat and crashed like a roaring anger
among the rocks, a nervous tic, a shiver
in your knees, that fluttered in the dark

and fell like your fingers, in my back.
The searing tip of your nose
ripping at my cheek
like water so hot it feels cold.

<< Back to Issue 14, 2010