Doc Wilkinson

The night George saw Doc Wilkinson
He was drinking hard,
So who knows what was there
And what was not?

But stories of a rocking chair
As a wandering spirit finds a moment
Of  serenity in a silent world

Or of a man who fell dead
In the dew beside his gate,
Yesterday's mail, unopened, in his hand

Stand as evidence as solid
As those millstones
Plucked from the flood-scattered ruins

Of Sam Butters' mill
And stood, as sentries,
On either side of the narrow gate,

But only to those who measure life in dreams.
 

10/24/1999
 

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