My mother was a weaver,
Many years have passed.
In an era they say when cotton were king,
Things didn't move quite so fast.
In clogs and shawl, walked the cobbled street,
Where a tram may rumble by.
She daren't be late, 'cause plenty of others
Were waiting in line to try.
I think she used to run six looms,
Quite a lot in her day.
The banging and clattering of the weaving machines,
You'd have heard them streets away.
In narrow flagged aisles she worked so hard,
The picking stick thrashing away.
Perpetual throw of the shuttle,
Drive belts would turn all the day.
Me Mam couldn't talk through noise and the din,
But they had their own way to speak.
Sign language, gestures, mouthing the words,
With effort made contact all week.
The memories of taping and sizing,
Card rooms, bobbins and weft.
The smell of the different departments,
Recollections are all we've got left.
Mr K Sowerbutts
Southwood Drive
Baxenden
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