Wind snaps through wild grain sprouted along the edge of the harbour The aching creaks of the windmill over head orchestrate a haunting song An appropriately ominous farewell to our weary sailors Just beyond the port, we stand freshly alone and wait We wait as they begin to vanish into the same fog from which they had appeared just a week ago We watch as their vessel becomes a mere imperfection against a looming wall of clouds And as they fade into the horizon, the sky darkens in anticipation of unavoidable ruin Towering clouds shed foreshadowing tears Weeks will pass, two months past when they should have returned will have come and gone The same haunting cries of the windmill will soon be joined by echoing church hymns Adorned in black veils and white flowers, we will be bathed by the same sorrowful clouds Oppressive clouds will hang low above a candlelit procession These fate burdened clouds will begin to weep, raindrops mingling with widows' tears
Painting: Windmill at Wijk bij Duurstede by Jacob van Ruisdael