In the dark shade of an early day
the silhouette of the rusty windmill stands tall
its lonely creaking song clanking lazily
and the thirsty barbed wire fence stands sentinel nearby

A shade rich tower of former glory
cast in shades of early dawn darkness
the rusty tangle of barbed wire hungry for its kiss
camouflaged by the back drop of tranquility

Here the dawn is layers of purple
and the old farm leans with age
one owl sings its last lullaby to the night
all its old ghosts settling in for the day

It is a tired place, made of cobwebs and whispers
the windmill sings its rusty song
its ghosts sigh across its forgotten fields
in the rich darkness of an early dawn