Looking across from that coastal enclave,
far in the distance I scarcely saw them.
Rain-washed windmills, weather-worn warriors
of a greater age, now grey and ground-down,
silent and still in abandoned sleep.
Rising high from foam-riffed waves
their rust-speckled wind-saws swayed at sea
like flowers faded, far-afield
in a meadow.  September, moving to fall-time
all sad and sodden, late in their season,
the beginnings of gradually gone.