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.
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.