Ye Old Mill
by Leslie Ball
This morning, we ride Ye Old Mill.
Water tinted unnatural blue
Churned frothy white by a yellow paddle wheel.
Bright red wooden boats float in and out of the tunnel.
In an instant, we're pulled into the pitch.
Fairground noise fades into the background
Replaced by the whisper of
water lapping at the boat.
It's so still, I wonder if we're actually moving.
Are we floating in place?
I'm happy to be lost in liquid time.
I want to spend the morning in the inky black of solace and silence.
We're peas in a pod soaking up the dank dark.
A slight breeze in my hair tells me we're moving after all.
Boat scrapes as canal turns.
Glimpses of dioramas punctuate the journey,
Bambi under a ribbon
garlands Seven Dwarfs cavorting in the forest.
Then, too soon, I hear the noise of the outside world encroaching up ahead.
Too soon we grind up the conveyer to disembark.
I'm sorry to step out of this timeless womb.
Back on to solid concrete, clocks and calendars.
Wouldn't every single one of us benefit from a daily dose of Ye Old Mill?
Floating in gentle peace and quiet,
Sitting side by side
Inside the tunnel of love.