J. R. Barber

black and green giants pour
sound forth as much as paper

a dirty clamour that makes the newsprint
heavier and crisper with each
thump of the press

faded denim cuffs knock against
each other, shooing dust from the
road, incensed by the ever-present cloud

walking up the hill past
the red brick chimney with its white
cap of chipping paint
I watch the river lap over the roofs and
chatter sweetly
under the din of the mill