Cornish Sonnet II: Old Mining VIllage

It's New Year's Day and we're driving to Cromford
for books from Scarthin's. To our left, a black bullock
sentries the gorgeside, then black sheep, the standard
White Peak drystone walls like heaped teeth.
He takes a brief detour - past the wild garlic,
tracing the mill race's pinballing path,
as it thrashes like Holmes and his nemesis grappling,
upward, to check out the six grand plus
property clocked in a newspaper. Far flung
corner like this? His estate-sleuth cognition
says 'long shot'. A windsock? They'll soon bring the price
down, one would think. He proceeds with the mission,
tracing the mill race's pinballing path
down. One would think he proceeds with the mission.