Flying Away

[wendy cook]

SPINNING AWAYThis story is about a windmill called William.Not a windmill . . .

or a windmill . . .

but a WINDMILL, a big, huge, shiny, white, con-tem-po-ra-ry WINDMILL.

And he stood on a headland where he could see the sea.

Which was sometimes blue and sometimes grey and sometimes . . .when the wind was in a temper or wanting to show off . . . then the sea was black.Black with wiggles of white surf scurrying all over.On such day of black sky and white wiggles, the windmills on the cliff top, William and his friends, were turning steadily, ploughing the wind, harvesting its strength. William faced the wind and carved it - slicing through it, calmly, steadily.On calm calm summer days - like this was not - the windmills were locked off.They stood, silent giants waiting, waiting for the wind to welcome the wind back.On wild, snarling days in winter, the windmills were turned off - too strong a wind would damage them.But on this day, someone, somewhere, f o r g o t.F o r g o t to turn and lock the windmills off.The wind blew harder and harder:The windmills whirled faster and faster. Faster and faster. C R A C K. The herd of windmills snapped free and went spinning away, higher and higher into the black sky till they were nothing more than dots of white against the cloudsThey were never seen again. Somewhere that herd of spinning, excited windmills are spinning around forever free, charging through space like wild, white horses, wide arms turning, cliff-top home forgotten.You can see where they used to stand. When you're walking on the cliffs and find flat concrete bases, metal bolts rusting, you'll know that's where William used to stand, patiently collecting the wind.When you look up and see white specks drifting towards the clouds you might be seeing a flock of seagulls,but you might be seeing a flock of free windmills: William and friends.Shout Hello!wendy cook