Whispers by the Watermill

At forest's edge, by pond's still grace,
The watermill stands in its place.
Logs weathered, ivy's slow embrace,
A wheel once turned, now lost in space.

Water whispers, old tales to tell,
Of work once done, now bid farewell.
The chimney stands, though fires are cold,
Once warm with stories, now left untold.

Autumn paints with a golden hand,
Leaves fall like sunbeams on the land.
Reflections shimmer in the pond,
Of silent wheels and skies beyond.

This quiet place, time’s gentle grip,
Where nature’s slow reclaim does slip.
The mill, a witness to days gone,
Where life persists, though work is done.

The air is still, the world serene,
A glimpse of what once might have been.
Beneath the trees, the mill remains,
A relic freed from time's harsh chains.

In the stillness, whispers revive,
A tale of life that once did thrive.
The mill endures, though work has ceased,
Its quiet soul forever at peace.