Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me…

The Ballad of Windmill Hill
For Keith…

The man clambered to the windmill, blunt pencil in his hand;

Head empty as his notebook: as nothing yet was planned.

But he sat down on his jacket: spine cold against the stone

Where the bread had once been moulded; the seed had once been blown;

Where the stooped-back miller once had toiled for hour upon hour

To turn the labour of the harvest into finest golden flour;

And he soon began to scribble, as the wind began to call

From the houses far below him; from cottage, church and hall.

And this is what he registered – inspired by what he learned –

Never passing any judgment on what his neighbours clearly yearned.

All we want is something simple, that we all can understand:

Nothing complex or beyond us; notions rooted in the land;

A village with a future; where each to each is known;

A place which folk find welcoming; that is everybody’s own;

Where, gradually, in union, with corresponding power,

We spread this presence evenly, and remember well that our

Stay upon this well-tilled soil means little to time’s sprawl;

Though man is one of many visitors whose impact may be small

Next to heaven’s mighty globes and the voyages they’ve turned;

But that yet we must be wary of the furrows that we’ve churned.

What wisdom can we manifest; who amongst us will take stand

To garner our agreement; stop our wishes turn to sand?

How will we ever vanquish those who want to reign alone:

Whose voices shout much harsher, whose only word is sown

On fallow ground, whose every thought is selfish, sharp and sour;

With no empathy or sympathy: their lust set on the tower

Of ruling over everyone; of leering over all;

Of meeting our petitions with an egoistic bawl?

Are there those amongst us brave enough – whose regard we know is earned –

Who will help us stand together; guarantee such fools are spurned?

And then the breeze veered westerly; and light glowed on the hand

Of one, then two, then several more, until a mighty band

Of villagers of every class who all had always shown

Great steadfastness and loyalty to the place in which they’d grown

Stood strong and straight in unity – no longer would they cower:

This was the land they loved – each tree, each bird, each flower –

And they would hold forever, brought together by that call,

To ensure that all three Tysoes could never ever fall;

Would from here deal right and fairly with each resident concerned;

Would from here shine bright with passion that in every heart now burned.

Upon the hill, the man awoke; his blank pad on the grass;

Yet sure that all he’d seen and heard would shortly come to pass.