Swaying ever so slightly in the ever so slight breeze
With no competition and an abundance of leaves,
The limbs stretch out horizontal with ease.
Saggy branches cast shadows ever changing not still,
Surrounding the ground at the base of Greg's mill.
The death of the farmer, an absence of relation
Resulted the rotting of wood and the estates decimation.
From the numberless seasons of decay and neglect
The mill, exhausted from age is still somehow *****.
Thick grass and means weeds form a bush-like combination
That blankets the mill’s base and destroys the foundation.
Dilapidated, homely and a touch out of place
With time, the farm, a memory will be easy to erase.
Things will run their course, land and estate will all fade
For nothing can escape Mother Nature’s crusade
A thought that’s ironic and slightly more grim
Is the fact that Greg's creation has outlasted him.
Since immortality is a myth that She will never permit.
Soon the mill will be gone like the farmer who created it.