Classic Poem

These are just windmills, or images
of windmills, for now they make nothing,
trading in tourists. We file them away.
Seen. The sky is blue, the sails blat round
in it, disappearing into themselves.
There's a power station down the road
and fields of tulips cavort in a bland mania,
tulpenwoerde . All's well. It's hard to imagine
Don Quixote tangling with these. At their feet
a stream makes uncertain progress
over rocks; obstacles fix its pace. I look up:
turmoil in quiet sky, high in the rack.
Clavileno couldn't fly there, where the main star
sails on above the whump whump whump ,
the whooshing and woolgathering making good time,
pulling in air, stirring it until dark gets
sucked into the airy trade too, windhandel ,
and is bottomed out, dropping to nothing.
The wind has shared what it could, and
has shifted away, speculating in currents
over the North Atlantic, stirring them
like memories of desire, or great gain.