At top of the hill A fragrant hill Stands the blue windmill. It has bricks of gold from the Cotswolds. It stands lonely, cold and still. No wind to blow here anymore. Blood sweat and many tears once lined the dusty, white floor. Now ivy of green hugs the door. No stones turn no fire burns grounding flour to make a pound. Every hour, each second counted. Hands of the brave that made a mark to engrave their time on the hill where now time stands still. A Raven who calls to the midnight air His wings as blue as the blades His body as deep as the ace of spades. As old as this story has been told new hope is about to unfold. The Raven is about to learn as once more the blue blades turn Through the yellow window a farmer's wife begins her new life. Her golden apron, her new dreams the sparkle in her blue eyes whips up a wind like never before. The generator stirs, the life uncurls like tail from a happy cat. Except this is tale that is about to begin.