Second post in the Winchester series for you…
II Golden Grain
Grown from the ground,
From earth’s chalk & clay, grime & gravel,
Tight-folded granules of wheat—
The poor man’s gold—
Is grist to the mill.
Dusty with lowly soil
It bulges in shadowed sacks,
Dull & lifeless as ash
Until from the dry-store it’s poured
Rattling, scuttling down the hopper:
Nuggets crushed between grey jaws,
Between the furrowed grit-stones.
They utter no sound but the low, low groan
Of stone on stone as gold-dust
Turns soft as silk:
Brighter than chalk or silver,
Whiter than milk or light.
And flour blooms on the mill-house floor.
© Lizzie Ballagher