I Want To Be A Windmill

I want to be a windmill,
and wave to passers by.
I want to glide arms through the sky,
and turn in creaks until I die.

I want to be admired,
and pointed out with children's fingers
while grinding wheat and singing squeaks,
the voice old wooden buildings speak.

I want to slowly amble,
and wheel in England's countryside,
look upon fields just like a tree.
The king of buildings I would be.
A wise old owl in rural seas.
Can I be a windmill, please!?

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.