Rising before dawn,
Lizzie clambers up the cobbled street
scrapes off the snow from under her clogs
clatters into the flag-paved mill
to her allotted patch in the weaving shed

First to clock on,
she ties back her flowing hair
for fear of it getting entangled in the loom
smooths over yesterday’s piece of cloth
and clears away any excess oil or waste

‘Best part of the day,’
she often hears her mother say
But in the ice cold of the weaving shed
fingers need to be kept nimble
or limbs can be lost

When workmates arrive
words can be exchanged
before the Tackler emerges
Once the looms are at full pelt
the racket is deafening

To sustain camaraderie,

she gets used to lip reading
learns that trips to the Necessary are limited
under the prying eyes of the Tackler
and the fear of a tuppence fine

Hard at it all morning
without so much as a pause
The Beast must be served
There’s no time to lose
A short break for dinner
then back to the grind
Just repetitive action
with no time to unwind

But at the end of the day
when there’s time to relax
she can take pride in her labours
And there’s joy to be had
in keeping up with the lads

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