Sensing t’rhythm of the picking stick;
And the clatter of the loom.
This spectral weaver wanders
About the spacious room.
A room that was a weaving shed
In the derelict Darwen mill;
Looms that have long since gone,
Yet he seems to hear them still.
As relentlessly he searches,
His eyes darting right and left;
Looking for the cotton
That formed the warp and weft.
Oft times he’d kissed the shuttle,
That era’s end was drastic.
Weaving cloth has gone forever,
The district’s busy making plastic!
Bill Austin, Blackburn.
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