Fifty years on they watch as
grit, sifted to grey silt, flows
in thin lines
towards change.
They stop their ears as
huge machines
gather, press, pound, stamp
with ruthless precision and ton weight.
In the iron gallery above
one bearded man monitors dials, checks,
as new bricks, smoothly green,
click out in pairs like polished shoes.
On an endless belt
the clones joggle, nod, settle,
process in line
to be washed, dressed, stacked, baked.
|
The watchers reflect:
less pain, less joy:
one man where there were pairs;
pairs where there were scores;
metal where there was flesh;
clatter where there was laughter.
Peter Stileman, Darren Marsh
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