The Windmill House
The Windmill House The sky has changed since this morning, from a hazy grey to a brilliant blue. White cumulus clouds hover motionless above the roof of the house and the sun shines hot onto the back of my neck and uncovered head. I have walked across the causeway to the sound of herring gulls screeching their familiar call but now the noise has changed to the gentle chirruping of reed warblers as they dart in and out of the marram grass, blanketing this part of the island from the sand dunes to the gorse bushes around the pond. The old windmill still stands, tall and sail-less as it surveys the shore, watching the endless tides ebb and flow day in day out, and through all seasons. It was winter the first time I met you here. You stood on the turrets of the mill, waving and calling to me as the wind tried to blow you from your viewpoint. Your words sailed away and out on the tide leaving me not knowing what you’d said. The door of the house opened outwards on...