In its daily orbit passing by,
The ghosted moon fades in the sky.
It sees our rambler up at dawn,
Bright and breezy not a yawn.
Dressing in his hiking gear,
He packs the rucksack lying near.
So firm of foot and striding out,
His chosen route is not in doubt.
The weather too is no threat,
Clouds are high it is well set.
He is engrossed by all he sees;
The hills, the fields, the distant trees.
Today the path winds by the brook.
He takes the time to stop and look;
To watch the babbling waters flow,
Dancing, glancing, fast then slow.
Up ahead he spies the mill,
Paddles turning working still.
His thoughts then turn to making flour.
How many bags are filled each hour?
As the miller works from dawn ’til dusk,
Separating corn from husk,
And works his fingers to the bone,
Crushing ears of wheat beneath the stone?
Our rambler stops to grab a bite;
Bread and cheese the chef’s delight.
Then onward by the river’s trail,
Meandering gently through the vale.
A watchful heron at the water’s edge,
Statuesque amongst the sedge.
Near the bank a Friesian herd,
Their ruminations barely stirred.
As our hiker skirts the grassy field,
He considers – what’s the milkmaid’s yield.?
If each cow consumes a bale of hay
What’s that in bottles filled each day?
Daydreams carry him down the track,
Where, on reflection, looking back
He loves the way the walk evolved,
Though calculations stay unsolved.
Contented, peaceful, satisfied,
He takes it all within his stride.