Memory's Millstones. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The millstones turn, old and slow,
Grinding memories, to and fro.
A sign, perhaps, that time has passed,
The good old days held firm and fast.

Picnics bloom in sunny fields,
Where joy a bounty richly yields.
Loved ones laugh, a sweet refrain,
Though turning back, we can't attain.

Birdsong weaves, with sheep's soft call,
A peace we barely knew at all.
Heart and soul, serenely filled,
A gift, unheeded, gently stilled.

The shore, the river, fishing line,
A simple catch, so truly fine.
Firelight dances, meals are shared,
A love remembered, deeply cared.

These moments live, within my mind,
Old stories I'm content to find.
Replayed in secret, just for me,
A private, precious memory.