I love to see a windmill
It brings such memory
When I was little with my
Dad
Reaching just up to his
knee.
He'd grab his rusty crescent
And climb up, oh so high,
To fix those scary blades
Way up in the sky.
Those blades, forever
creaking,
Those BIG blades.....
ever squeaking,
When those BIG, SHARP,
blades,
were in a whirl
All was right with our
small world.
Those BIG, SHARP, angled
blades.
were a source of life to
us
Of such refreshing water,
If that old windmill did
breakdown,
My Dad he didn't loiter.
He'd jump into his
minimoke, this bloke
And tear off through the
sand,
"Gotta' fix the windmill"
he'd yell,
With a wave of greasy
hand.
He'd crank and pull and
siphon
Until the thing ran
free...
Willing the wind to blow
a gale,
"Turn you blades, turn,
not just for me!!
Then slowly the wind
would come
And to a greater
force those strong blades submit,
Bowing to the windy
sky ...
Giving itself so freely,
Never asking why.
And then the stream would flow
Cool and clear and sweet,
And all night it would keep pumping up and
down
Filling the great big water tank
Unless it sprang a leak..
Now when I see a windmill
Standing there true-blue
stoic on it's stand,
I think of my Dad's fight for
water,
To keep us on the land.
Oh windmill of my mind
May the wind of the Spirit blow,
Forever fresh on me, so I will flow
With living water
As a fountain springing up
with life so full and free.
