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The Old Mill

written by: Polly Oliver



The shadows are lengthening
And with this, comes a dampening
In the breeze that's now sliding
Down the dusk-flanked hill.

Above our kisses, trees whisper
The wood's warning that crepuscular
Trysting calls forth danger
Unmentionable still.

I see goose-pimples springing
On your freckled arms, wrapping
My passion, that's cooling
With this darkening chill.

Gold-green which had shone on our embraces
No more dapples our now watchful faces
From the old path's bends it races
And in the gloaming grows a thrill-

Of dread at what could now be coming
With the darkness that is thickening
Between us... and what's listening,
In the tumbledown mill.

Your head flicks right, to footsteps unseen.
Oh my love! We start to a hidden scream.
Or laughter? We're frozen, as those in a bad dream
Only dreams cannot kill...

Polly Oliver

Polly Oliver

JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.
Polly Oliver

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