The wind mills stand there listlessly
Alongside golden yellow cenotaphs
Rising into the bleak November sky.
Both are polished by the same dusk.

A rich green bramble rises alongside
The cenotaphs into a competing sky,
Not that high but what a wind allows.
Wind controls mills in sky and below.

A bramble thinks it controls the wind
Over royal dead under the cenotaphs.
The royal dead do not think anything.
They may wish to say off with a bush.

They may like to say off with the mill.
They may like to control a wind in sky.
But they don’t think royal in cenotaphs
Lying dead through centuries of dusks.

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