for Svetlana Yelnitskaya
These days, the river only fools about,
idling its time away.
The power plant’s in ruins. The water, though,
still roars like the machines it drove,
with stifled wave.
A huge apartment. Through
what was a factory window, view
the autumn park, the river’s molten-honey seethe,
and further off, the brick-red hue
of fulling mills that used to bash and beat.
In this place woollen thread was spun,
and woven bolts stood stacked around,
the river buckled down in regulated run,
and surplus value grasped and grubbed,
so it accrued.
Enough accumulated. Now it’s time
for sanded oak, squared-up scrubbed tile,
for burnished brass and polished pane,
piped music. Artery, though, and vein
murmur that death is nigh.
And when the ennui endgame leaves us broke,
the nineteenth century will come again,
and cinch the river back into its yoke.
The mounting sun will light the factory gate,
upon the visage of the labouring folk
will rise the glow from the consumptive lung,
the scalded factory dog will moan,
the looms break into polyphonic song,
the shuttle snap back with its to-and-fro,
and wheels will claque along.