she waits for her lover on the millpond bridge

in the autumn sun on Michaelmas day

the waterwheel forever turning

caressing the river in its turbulent play.

 

      In a Tavistock tavern her lover lies

      in the arms of a drunken brazen whore.

      The golden sun engulfs the room

      their clothes lie strewn on the riven floor.

 

Lust explodes as his seed is spent

and no thought is spared for the millpond bridge

and still she waits and watches for him

for a silhouette on the distant ridge.

 

      The miller is watching his daughter there

      as the sun begins its lowering phase

      while the millwheel turns to grind the corn

      the shaft of light on the whitening haze.

 

The seed is pure the flour awaits

and he muses the way a father must

at his daughter's anxious poise as now

the hours pass and turn to dust.

 

      In the Tavistock tavern the lover stands

      wiping his mouth and buckling his belt

      and lays a guinea on the bed,

      she smiles and winks as the deal is dealt.

 

He knows not what she carries inside,

the blisters and the reddening flesh. 

 

The miller's daughter turns her head

to see her lover's shape enmesh

      with the setting sun at the millpond bridge.

      How sweet this meeting on Michaelmas day

      and she longs to touch his willing flesh,

      to give her aching body away.