The full moon, part hidden by a wispy cloud

tinged grey with spring rain, lights the walls of the mill

and a tree in leaf at the water’s edge.

An oil lamp has been lit in a small window.

The water wheel begins to turn. The millstones,

their grinding muffled, judder the earth.

The creamy race pours from the wheel back

into the river thickened by the rain,

which is already falling on moorland

and its abandoned, shattered, moonlit crofts.

On the opposite bank a young girl

looks up briefly. She is alone, kneeling

in the shadows above a shallow inlet.

Only her bonnet and smock catch the dim light,

and the small bundle she has placed before her.

The abundant waters tumble past.