From an Upstairs Window by Myra Morris

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A windmill turning in the rain,
Backwards and forwards and round again,
With clanking arms that strive and strain.

Across the muddy road from me,
A wet tin roof and chimneys three
As red as polished porphyry.

Tall poplars past the ice-black flags,
Round-shouldered in the wind, like hags
Trembling in all their tattered rags.

A waggon splashing up the road,
With silver milk-cans safely stowed;
A burly man upon the load.

Greyness that gathers like a tide
And drowns the plains immense and wide:
Greyness without - greyness inside!

My thoughts that turn with gusty pain,
Driven around and back again.
Are like the windmill in the rain!

First published in The Bulletin, 15 January 1925

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on January 15, 2014 7:27 AM.

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