The Old Windmill

Once there was a windmill on the edge of a Suffolk village,
the men who worked there white with flour dust,
labourers in back breaking sweat and toil labour.
Children screamed in their mothers’ perambulators
bereft of any hope for the future.

Disease and cold killed them all eventually,
the men took comfort inside the spit and sawdust Alehouse,
no conversation was heard,
only the dull ticking of the clock witnessing doom time
amid cowering surrender to the Landlords will.

Now ghost hymns tone through shadows
where restless spirits’ walk,
and smug historians juggle
those defeated souls
into a language of academic niceties.

Today, Landlords and tyrant employers
still use the tools of fear
to, “Divide and conquer” the workforce and the powerless,
and a never ending Sunset goes down
on the oldest game in human history.

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