[Lubesh]

Author's note: This was inspired whilst reading Colin Baker's (treasured member) stuff over the years... this is for you Colin, a fellow brit, who will hopefully appreciate and therefore not make my time a total wasted one lol not sure about that but am tired and wanted to pay small tribute in a roundabout way - now I am brave(er). Anyway...


‘Idle hands are the devil’s work…’

Sweat pours from the headscarf of a young mother as she leans wearily
and oppressed, watching cobwebs play in one corner with once envied
pieces of fine cloth that lay furled and soiled, nestling against an upswept
broom, amidst the gloom and heavy brocade of dusted light that filters
onto neglect, the dimness of a bygone slumber of gargantuan,
monumental machinery sleeping soundly nearby.

Past roars of a forgotten era, pale into the gloom, croaking through the rust
and corroded parts, we cannot mend or will not. Disgruntled grinding can be heard
in the distance of a tradition of half starved families, cloistered at one
evening meal while some sleep, bellies empty, but meekly feeding upon
the sounds she makes as she clatters in the kitchen; they are swept up by the
winds that dare disturb the rest of abandonment.

Chaotic doom surrounds our chimneys as funnelled sunshine, heralding
a new age, yawns and shines on our blackened faces. Is this our messiah
in true light? Will we be fed tonight and for many years to come? Or will time
and errors make our plight an antiseptic bolthole, which will make us long for
the trundling of this cobwebbed machinery and ghosted voices that sing with us
in our tawdry clothes and grubby knees as they gaze onto and graze the cobbled
streets? I treasure the blood that seeps onto my handkerchief as the dying
sun wanders from my face and back to the corner of forgotten factories,
asleep again and long until they are awakened and brought back to life
in another dream.