Its appearance is unremarkable. An ancient tower of grey stones covered in vines. Time has taken away its sails. Yet I often sit by the living room window, staring, waiting with muted excitement. Many passers-by would rarely gift it more than a glance, but those who live in the village of Padmore know of the windmills undeliberate deception; and like me, they gaze frequently in anticipation.
Every year as July approaches with an entourage of humidity, vibrant yellow blooms slowly appear until it looks as if the sun had exploded over the windmill, leaving it showered in a mass of flowing petals. The village becomes obscured by the floral beacon, pulsing with a beauty that is almost alien.
For several weeks it’s the centrepiece of Padmore; passers-by and residents alike would be rendered speechless.
Then the golden aura would fade as gradually as it had begun. And the windmill returns to being a tower of grey ancient stones covered in vines. A windmill without sails.
