Cross Lane Mill Poem by C Richard Miles

Once-lively, labouring looms have languished and now lie,
Like statues, stopped and still at Cross Lane Mill;
No rattling, rhythmic shuttle clatters in the silent shed.
Unwanted woollen warp and wafting weft rest, left bereft:
No clumsy clogs tap out their toilsome, tiresome trudge.
Lank, dank, rank greasy, lambswool lanolin no longer fills
The cavernous catacombs with oily, odorous hum.
No stern-faced, overbearing overlooker struts
And scans each woven worsted piece for hefty slubs.
No bright-eyed bonny mill-lass bursts and bounds
To bring the bright-hued bobbins from the well-stocked stack.
No tight-spun spools in rainbow ranks are stored
Inside those huge, hushed halls, where massed machinery
Crammed coarse cacophony inside those ill-lit rooms.
The engine, once so sleek with polished pistons proud
Thrusting tirelessly with steam-pushed power
Sits soundless where that shining shovel strove
To carry countless chunks of glossy coal and slack
To feed the famished furnace’s wide hungry yawn.
No bustling, busy belts and winding, whirling wheels
Turn endlessly cajoling churning cogs
That drill and drive the dozens of machines
That spin incessantly the carded well-combed wool
On rolling, rough-hewn reels, fat fleece spun fine
To yield the yarn for textiles thick and thin.
The chimney contemplates the quiet, quitted site
And spouts no more its gloomy, ghostlike grime
But still stands stolid, looming down the dale
A tall memorial to those long-lost, distant days
When village weavers earned their meagre crumbs
Amongst the clamour of Cross Lane Mill’s looms.