Herb Mill : 1917
WE heard the Flanders guns on windless days, We who had come by strange, unlikely ways To the mill at the water's edge—but the distant thunder, Though it had called the mill to life, was less Than the murmur and plash of the smooth stream flowing under The wooden bridge where the goats came down to graze And pigeons preened in sun-steeped idleness. * * * * * * * * * * Pricking, tapping, drumming, the sounds of summer pressed About us as we sat with down-bent head, Fingers moving precisely as they spread Leaf beside leaf ; young coltsfoot, that caressed The touch with its woolly down, Harsh burdock, ugly and brown ; Leaves pointed, pinnate, oval—leaves that made A green mosaic, which the eye would scan, Seeking some empty space Where yet one leaf might find a place ; Until, the last tray spread, began The journey to the kiln. Leaving the mottled shade Of the chestnut brooding by the stream, we filed Across the white yard, shimmering in the sun, Walking with careful steps, and arms that strained Beneath the burden of the trays, high piled, Until the doorway of the kiln was gained.
Threading the vaulted passage, one by one, We reached the lobby where the mill-hand stood, His bare arms glistening—and our breath Was caught by the choking, stifling heat, As with what haste we could We set the stacked trays down, and hurried back To the cool air tinged with meadow sweet ; While, in the kiln, a torrid wind brought death To the leaves slow-shrivelling to grey and black.
* * * * * * * * * * For one sweet-scented week we gathered lime-tree flowers, Down the long avenue with arms uplifted faring, Pouring the gathered blossoms in pale, golden Miowers On outstretched sheets, and then returning, bearing Our incense-breathing spicy store.
Spread on the old mill's upper floor, The drying lime-flowers rustled in the breeze Like yellow silk. I saw a swallow skim That honey-scented sea—and, watching him Threading his flashing course from right to left, It seemed he wove a magic veil Out of the brittle flowers, which some Chinese Princess might wear in fairy tale, A golden warp shot with a sapphire weft.
* * * * * * * * * * The pale, cool streams of lime-flowers dwindled, And underneath a sullen sky The poppy's scarlet flame was kindled Among the fields of oats and rye.
With free arms moving rhythmically, we bent To pull the petals from the flowers, and flung The silken handfuls in the sacks that hung Suspended from our shoulders, as we went Bowed down between red earth and angry skies.
To this strange harvesting the wounded soldiers came, And now blue burgeoned on a field of flame, So that the darkness, when we closed our eyes, Dissolved in reds that glowed and blues that burned, As if some giant kaleidoscope was turned. * So time's kaleidoscope has turned—and so The image of the mill, the smoking kiln, was shattered And fell to fragments long ago ; And of the workers in the herb fields, all arc scattered, Scattered or dead ; and though Down in the lanes coltsfoot and burdock grow, And drifts of poppies stain the cornfields still, Nobody brings them to the lonely mill.
FEEDA C. BOND.
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