old miller

a friend was describing how she cried at the end of Old Yeller (didn't we all) and I thought she said "old miller". Well, I wrote it down and a few days later wrote this poem

crooked stick in hand

along brush path by first light

the old man shuffled

a walk he'd made his whole life

through ancient oak, elm, huckleberry

past stones broken only for home and mill

down to the river's edge

to work

 

the river flowed steady

sure of time spent

washing through sunshine and earth

clear snowmelt and rain,  

tears from the faces of mountains

ran through this humble valley

 

for five generations

the waterwheel turned

a constant slosh made by

one hundred and eight slats,

a water song

sung by wooden slave to man

and river

 

the entire building shook

once he set the cogs in place,

a perfect mesh of fitted motion and whirl

set to grindstone

the dust turned his creased skin yellow

as corn, husks and all

became meal

 

he had ground

wheat into flour during the great war

but these days it was corn and rye

ground into meal for feed

that paid the most

 

he paused at midday

to eat and smoke,

releasing pressure

from stone and wood

caused sudden silence

he stepped out

onto the loading platform

to listen for water,  wind,

and bird songs from across the river

 

 

he had ground enough meal

for thirteen bags

and needed nine more

for the day to end

as there would be a barge

in the morning, early

to carry the meal downriver

and to town

 

He finished his smoke

And went back to work . . .

 

 

 

he was missing half a forefinger

and part of his thumb

and his breathing was heavy

not a tall man but always tried to stand up straight,

he was stooped now

from carrying his weight in meal

day in and day out

 

 

he lost two sons in the war

he was never a boastful man

but was certainly proud

and sad and angry in believing

they had not died in vain

 

he lost a daughter to childbirth

and in his middle years

raised the grandchild into womanhood

to became his life and love

 

and once he thought he killed a man,

caught the thief

loading a boat with his bags of meal

and from behind

knocked him in the head with a stir paddle

the man fell into the boat bleeding and floated away

down the river

 

the death of his wife

sent him grieving the most

for she was his light and long nights

years of home fire cooking

and mending torn skin with tender kisses

clean clothes blowing in an afternoon wind

he would come home to with open arms

 

the river flowed slower that day

as so the turning of the grindstone

yet the waterwheel continued

spinning day after day

year after year

 

 

 

. . . the late afternoon sun

shone through slight cracks in walls

and black wooden beams,

shafts of dusty yellow light

spiraled over silent cogs and still grindstone

onto the back of the old man’s hands

 

with one last bag to be filled for the day

he paused,

leaned on his worn shovel

and looked around

 

“dirty, filthy work”

he said out loud,

for the life of him

he never understood why

he had spent his whole life

grinding meal and flour

 

except it was all he had known,

to work

to live

 

from across the river

he heard galloping horses,

at the water’s edge

cottonwood trees whispered

an early evening song

for him to whistle along with

as he walked up past broken stones and home

 

© 2011 Mark C. Jackson

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Mark C. Jackson]

thank you!

[therisa]

The "Old Miller" flows like, the stream, he uses to mill the corn and the various grains, which are part of his daily job. Smoothly describing the toils of a man, who has, sadly, accepted his lot, in life, although wishing for more. We all know of people, who would easily match the description of old miller, take away their job, their life is, at an end. It sad and melonchy tone to it, but it is fitting to subject you are writing about. Well done.