Gelled fast by grease-lank lanolin from lambswool <br />Stand eyeless skeletons clawed back from death throes. <br />Bare bones of blood-red brick and black soot. <br />Stripped, glassless mills slink stark in Ingrow. <br /> <br />These throng-less halls, which one held thousands <br />In industrial prime who sweat-spun rank skeins <br />Into coarse-slubbed shoddy, or dense worsted, <br />Simply stall and draw the smoke-grey sky in. <br /> <br />They shall not long rest roofless, sacked and empty: <br />Developers draw dark arcane design-drafts <br />Which convert, to chic sleek city crash-pads, <br />Sheds that heard rough shouts of low-class workers; <br /> <br />And when the smug-smile upstart middle classes <br />Move in with their swish foreign-spun garments, <br />Will these walls feel shaken, shamed to silence <br />That they cannot now themselves supply them?<br /><br />C Richard Miles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ingrow-mills/
