An East Lancashire Town, c.1920

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An East Lancashire Town, c.1920

 

 

A green-grey valley 'neath blue-grey skies

where the sun shines to one side.

Timeless moors of mud and air

around chimneys now expired.

 

Endless rows of dampened slate

housing muscle for the mills,

edging up the valley side

and knawing at the hills.

 

Windowless sheds of noise and heat,

sweat rattled from the brows

of women, men and younger ones

'tween a hundred static ploughs.

 

Other sheds round a patch of green

where thousands roar or groan,

the crowds walk back mid clouds of breath

all smiles or sighs of scorn

 

to the smoky pubs of tireless men

who laugh and shout and fight,

forgetting work and wives at home

on this their one owned night.

 

On Sunday some would go to church,

most against their will,

the wiser ones took bag and cap

and headed for the hills.

 

To the gusty moors of mud and grass

to breathe the endless air

and tread the paths of fresh brown earth

wind racing through their cares.

 

Up and away from the smoke and dust

of their grinding toiling town,

across each stile of brown-grey stone

life surging from the ground.

 

Into their veins flows renewed blood

rising up into their heads,

flushing out unwanted thought,

retying broken threads.

 

The threads that sewed man to his earth,

embroidering his destiny

of perpetual renewal

of life's green tapestry.