The Lights at the Mill—J. F. Gleeson

I was sat atop the mill in the night.

I could look up, and I did, at a lot of stars. Some were red and pink. Some glittered more than did others. Some were like the wounds left by needlepoint in fabric. Some were dead but no other could know.

I could look down at the turn of the coloured lights in the night and the music that they spun to. The music shone off the front of the river, glassed the flowing of the liverwort. The mill turned the water.

It was strange, to look down and see me there, turning with those others.

When I looked up, I did not see the same.

It was not so strange.

photo by Simon Godfrey (via unsplash)