Dad's Mill

Tree and metal tie,

Knotting as each fly.

Unarmed spine of oak,

Will you please the folk?

Many trees we slew,

Patient as each drew,

Closer to the blade,

Opened like a page.

And the earring cut,

Felt within my gut,

Caused in me to feel,

Hatred in the wheel.

Oh that time would fly,

As the evening sky,

Fell upon a land,

I cannot hold in hand.