For Sue Vincent’s Thursday challenge, a sort of prose poem with WIP in mind.
The millrace runs but there is no more a mill, and trees grow now where wagons once stood with their head-hanging horses, waiting to be loaded with their bolts of finished worsted.
The beck still babbles, its leaping waters clearer than they ever were in those days when wild nature served one purpose—to be harnessed to the fiery chariots of the fiercest of men.
Fierce and proud, with a blindness when it came to the suffering they caused, with their grasping greed for profit, were the men in paunch-vast waistcoats.
If they didn’t see the misery in the humanity around them, how could they have noticed when the mill streams fouled were running black or blue or cimson with dyes from the washings of the vats?
But their ferocity was puny in the face of wakened nature, when the stones had had enough of blood and desecration, and the sacrifice of beauty on the altar of greed.
The mill race runs forever, leaping crystal clear, sunlight glinting on the ripples and cascading woven water.
Where is your monument in stone, in black Millstone Grit, your dark, satanic symbol of industrial success?
We know where you are now, Mr Mill Owner the Mighty, you are in the deep dark hole where the dead men go.