Windmills

We climbed to tilt. The mad-dog sun
Concealed by unaccustomed cloud
Still burned. And beggared Spain, so proud
Beneath, Baroque accretion spun
Behind the flaking Gothic walls.

And at the top, midst skylarks’ calls,
We sweated and we foolish posed.
As all before we there supposed
Quijote spoke. But dowdy palls
Have long since facile victory won.

Rupert Moreton

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