all alone in stockroom attic 

for a year I worked in Donegal Design, the textile company my parents started in 1951. as son of the founders I was not viewed equally, even though I executed all the same jobs, with no extra privileges. the stock room where I worked was in an attic. it was a great place for uninterrupted reflection, while I worked, cutting out salesman’s samples.

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Bulky bales,  coloured fabric rolls wait,

scissors, patterns and fashions dictate;

attic warmed by wool, wowing my eyes

rich their hallowed hues, riot of dyes.

 

Much remembered textile employment

alone in storage attic, sheer enjoyment;

salesmen samples, folio show-carded,

haloed my heritage, fondly regarded.

 

At trapdoor aluminium ladder stood

attic access exposed splintery strut wood;

jumbo rolls sheltered, safely stored,

smothered stockroom singing underfloor.

 

Watch-less wrist, time played its game,

school girls spied through cobweb frame;

breaktime un-shouted to founders son,

late my plain sandwiches finally begun.

 

All weather cycling ended after a year,

sideways, not upward trajectory career;

happily recalled, easy-going factory days:

missed loom clatter, industrial praise.

 

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