Silent Mill Sonnet Poem by C Richard Miles

The mill is silent now, no lasses tread
In clattering wooden clogs and tattered frocks
Across the greasy floor of cotton sheds,
For time has latched the door and turned the lock.
Where shuttles swiftly sped on rattling looms
That wove fine warp and weft to hefty cloth,
The air is empty in those damp, dark rooms,
More ill-lit now since current is switched off.
Like them, the weavers crumble, dulled by age,
Each bonny bright-eyed lass lined, gnarled and bent,
Far from those days they strove to earn a wage,
Collected Friday night, then quickly spent
Yet though they hearken back to days long past,
They're glad such poverty did not long last.