Read it aloud my friend, savour it slowly, come sit with me.
Sunbeams in an Old Cloth Mill
Left my car in a weedy cobbled lane,
By a crumbling derelict cotton mill,
It loomed cavernous coolly inviting,
In a forgotten yesteryear Bombay.
Waiting alone inside for someone late,
I sink back on a cot by the stockroom,
Haunt of the sentry who’s sidled away,
Leaving nothing but relics in my care.
Many silent looms chequer the mill’s floor,
Standing tall and haughty or hunkered down,
Tarped or showing gear and belt innards,
Garbed in cobwebs, dusty oil perfumed.
Distant skylights in accordion tin roof,
Beam sunshine shafts in wasted beauty,
Paths for glimmering dust to rise and fall,
To settle quietly on a world bygone.
Pigeons coo and flutter on steel girders,
Companions of melancholy old ghosts,
I too lie content on the dappled floor,
Forgotten museum with purpose no more.