Though artists, and poets, found you worthy of praise
By the pull of the lade and the turn of the wheel
They would harness your power and your dignity steal.
And out children spilled like ants from their hill
For they, too, would live to serve Owen’s Mill.
And if your strength was stolen, in truth, so was theirs
As each day they poured down the wells of the stairs.
But, then, they could dance could skip and could play
As the dreams of their childhood slipped slowly away.
And down you still tumble, beyond the racemill
As we pause here awhile on the brow of the hill.
And our thoughts stray to how, they too, must have been
Inspired by the story of all that we’ve seen…