Creaking of ancient wood, planks straining against nails. Paint peeling; gravity sending petals of faded cream cheese yellow fluttering down. Over mellow pastures, ending up as fertiliser, confetti, food for cows. The structure hangs. It was built not skyward, but from the overhanging edge of a cliff. Conical, narrow at the base and wide at the roof – like Dante’s inferno. Stairs spiral, logistics illogical. All the same, the wind blows, the sails catch and turn and the grindstone grinds. Unused, untouched by human hands for over a century now. They belong to no one. They belong to the town. The flour-dusted floors, the sighs of the windmill.