The Garment Factory

 

I remember regimented machines

and automated, impersonal industry.

A cavernous space that swallowed

anyone who entered its void.

Colours, bright and cleanly cut,

run together with fast fingers

moving without conscious thought.

 

I remember the smell of

new, pristine, unworn fabrics,

yet to be stained and frayed.

Of dust particles, draft born,

shimmering in shafted light.

And aromas of home, snatched

in a hurried canteen hour.

 

I remember the feel of

soft cloth, cold metal

and vibrations that struck

through uneven timbered floors.

The dynamic synergy of man and

machine coming together as one,

and production's palpable pulse.

 

I remember the sounds,

the din, the clatter and hum

of programmed belted looms.

The exaggerated mouthings

across needled whirrings.

And desolation's silent stillness,

… now the machines have gone.

 

 

 

Comments   

 
#1 Lee 2013-04-28 12:06
Drawn to the content for my mum's sake. She was a machinist. i love the 'exaggerated mouthings" and the alliteration. Recent events in banglasdesh add poignancy to the reading of it.
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