The Waterwheel Once Again: Mrs Rochester’s Story Drawn as I am to it I fear it too Its dark beauty and power Black with age and use Cups again and again the soft water. Made mild by dale and stone The drip, drip, drip of Mother Shipton’s cave Petrifying a hat, a ballet shoe An umbrella Hanging like excavated Pompeian Artefacts. There is no wheel there in the Garlic forest up in the hills A damp cave for a home. Driven from town as a witch she was feared and saught. This wheel is an attraction so great I abhor it. It has a pull on me. The rhythm of its rhyme, the rhythm of its rhyme, the rhyme of its rhythm A repeated phrase In mechanical shouts And watery gutturals The crank and grind of it The burden of industrial weight The insolent preponderance of it pulls my eyes unwillingly to its black presence Its perpetual motion Hypnotic Wavering on a precipice How easy, how freeing just to let go ...