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