Churn

In the quiet dairy of the village green,
A wooden churn sits, its oak worn smooth,
Waiting for the milk to thicken, to be seen
Turning slow as thoughts in a wistful youth.

Hands turn the handle, round and steady,
Feel the resistance give way to soft sighs,
Cream swirls, a pale vortex, already
Dreaming of butter ‘neath summer skies.

Beyond the farm, the sea begins to churn,
White‑capped waves clash against the cliff’s grey face,
Each surge a restless heart that cannot learn
To settle, forever seeking its own place.

So life itself is but a gentle churn—
From milk to butter, from calm to storm’s fierce turn,
We spin, we blend, we wait for the return
Of substance formed where motionInterwoven, we learn.