The Mill Poem by Angela Wybrow

The Mill

Rating: 5.0


The Mill bell tolls just before dawn,
To wake sleeping workers snuggled up warm.
Workers pour in through the Mill gate,
Knowing there'll be trouble if they are late.

Across the cobbles, they purposefully pace;
Another long day, each one must face.
Twelve long hours, these workers must toil;
The damp, humid air makes them all boil.

Many of them make straight for the looms -
Housed in shadowy spaces filled up with gloom.
They toil all day with sweat on their brows,
Processing cotton for sheets and for towels.

The Mill's machinery continually clatters -
Drowning out attempts at companionable chatter.
The machinery, it emits squeaks and squeals;
Forever turning are the belts and the wheels.

The Master of the Mill, he revels in his wealth -
His workers are poor and they suffer ill health.
The clothes they wear are torn and tattered;
On the food they eat, they won't get any fatter.

The workers, they inhale cotton-dust motes -
Tickly coughs soon catch in their throats.
Their hearing can be damaged due to the din,
And, if they're not careful, they may lose a limb.

‘Scavengers' scramble beneath the machines,
Whilst over them ‘piecers' precariously lean.
The ‘scavengers', small children as young as four,
Sweep waste cotton fibres from off of the floor.

The ‘piecers' mend threads which have got snapped -
They take extra care not to get fingers trapped.
The mules they keep moving at a magnificent speed,
Allowing no time for trapped hands to be freed.

Dirt and danger are just part of their day,
But, in return, they receive pitiful pay.
A fast-flowing river runs outside the wall.
The Mill's smoking chimney towers so tall.

By the huge water-wheel, the engines are powered -
Keeping the machines working hour after hour.
Through the Mill yard, cotton-filled sacks,
Are transported by men up on their backs.

The cotton comes from countries far overseas -
Hand-picked by slaves who wish to be free.
There are many who say that cotton is the king -
Money to the Masters, this white gold does bring.

After such a long day, the workers are tired,
But each of them is grateful just to get hired.
In clothes in hues of black, brown, and grey,
They trudge back home at the end of the day.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: work
COMMENTS OF THE POEM

Beautiful narrative on the industrial age. Reads like an excerpt from a Charles Dickens's book.

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Angela Wybrow

Angela Wybrow

Salisbury, Wilts, UK
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