This flat landscape used to sing
With sighs of wind in creaking
Blades and sails, grinding grain
Or pumping water from a drain.
Windmills towered amongst the trees
Waiting for Cervantes’
Gentleman to fight.
Windmills across Norfolk were a sight
But now, in modern times, they languish,
Deteriorate and perish,
Until only their ruins remain,
Like Don Quixote’s giants – slain.
© Kim M. Russell, 2016