Men and women as if by the herd
Round the corner
On their dawn parade down the cobbled street
Towards the labour of the day.

Determination marks the faces of those
Who stealthily tread the path
With feet enclosed in clogs,
Whose soles with iron shod,
pound the cobblestones
With rhythmic motion.

Within the mill, looms clang and clatter
High ceilings echo and stone floors resonate
The 'new age' sound.

Shouting voices and the perpetual hum and rattle
Create a cocophony of sound
Which weaves its own symphony.

Eight arduous hours later
The hooter heralds the end of the day
And, as if spewing from its mouth,
The mill discharges its weary workers.

Tired labourers, once again walk,
With no less determined tread
The cobbled street.

Dusty clogs now carry tired feet
Cloth caps and headscarves
Cover hair speckled with cotton fluff.

For now at least, there is laughter, and relief
From the constant mechanical chatter
Of the textile giants.

Release from the daily grind of the mill
Whose tall, smoking chimney
Stands to attention
Saluting the industrial age.

10/21/2001

Posted on 10/21/2001
Copyright © 2024 Anne Howe