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The Factory
As a child I was warned
that if I looked at the light
for too long it would send
me blind and yet
the stuttering flash
and eerie blue light
from an arc welder
that crackled deep inside
the factory would tempt me
to steal a glance into
its bright, menacing core.
Mystery and danger lurked
in the cavernous dark that waited
beyond the door. The gray brick
building was windowless and wore
no signage. The locals simply
called it ‘the welding factory’.
I would pass it every day
on my way to school,
look into its depths to see
spectral figures fluoresce
then dissipate into the dark.
Men in hinged metal face masks
and leather aprons would emerge
into daylight from out
of the factory door to have a smoke.
They looked like visitors
from another world stepping out
from their alien craft.
Their art was a kind of sorcery
stolen from the sun
or the devil.
On weekends
I would sometimes sneak around
and find bits of bent wire
and metal tubing with black
blisters growing out of stubs.
It was treasure for a boy.
I wondered what they made there
and stayed alert in case
some creature emerged
from out of the dark
with its red glowing eyes,
the same that sometimes
tormented me during those long
nights of panic and delirium
and unheard cries.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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