Submitted by Theresa Burns
after the painting by Meyndert Hobbema
Someone is always returning
to a village with water mill.
Clouds, as usual, portend
his arrival. High and stern and cumular,
they compose themselves
above the trees.
Years he may have been gone,
or a fortnight. But the swift-moving
river, in what seems
without exception late April,
never slows. When he reaches the low
sloped house made of stones,
the windows invariably open,
always a still handsome woman leans
on the sill in a crisp kerchief
and wonders, as he approaches,
whose child it is beside him,
and in what room the boy will sleep.
Photo credit: Meyndert Hobbema – Village with Water Mill among Trees
Vita Brevis Press. 
Lovely. I like the idea that this always happens, this scene frozen and played over and over.
This is one of those wonderful poems that makes me feel like I’m right there in that village.
I felt the same way, Walt!
She used such wonderful descriptions. Very well crafted.
Agreed–we would love to publish more of her work!
I look forward to it.
Thank you for these kind comments. I seem not to be able to respond to them directly.
This is quite vividly expressed and well crafted. Gives the surreal feeling of being one of the characters in the poem.