The Old Windmill

The old windmill stands alone
Its sails like a giant iron cross
Surely we can't condone
The rust and growing moss.

When in times gone by
It stood so proud,white.
Tall magnificent against the sky
What grace,what sheer delight.

No more wind no more sail
No more corn to grind
No more pints of ale
Or bags of grain to bind.

Now it stands in decay and dust
Very proud,but in disgust.