It can be windy, Whitstable,
But the mill on Borstal Hill doesn’t go round.
Upkeep isn’t cheap
And you can’t buy sails in the sales.

So there it stands.
Restored but bored.
Wanting to give it a whirl,
Wanting to fly, but wingless,
Its spindly black cross
Unmoved by the breeze.

It’s a marker for those at sea,
But that’s not what it wants to be.
It’s been home to a painter,
But that ain’t a patch on milling –
not half as thrilling.

It went against the grain.
A mill can feel pain.
Longing to get back to the daily grind,
The thump and creak of the stones.

It yearns to do a proper job again.
To be proud.
To have its millhood restored.
But no sails, no chance.

So its best bet is a holiday let.
But when the wind blows,
It remembers what it was.
And dreams.


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