MILL TOWN

In town of Holy Face, now Halez Fax Are rows of back-to-backs in terraces Between the mills that spill their thick black smoke. Industry now dominates hill and dale. Manufacture is master with muscle. Sulphuric fumes poison the once green hills Turning the trees to charcoal skeletons. The peaceful sound of silence that once was Is killed by loud clatter from textile mills And clogs clomping up the steep cobbled streets With steel segs grinding on the granite setts As folk trudge to-and-fro in day’s routine, Between the terrace rows of back-to-backs In that old mill town known as Halez Fax.