The Factory in Turners Falls
The factory in Turners Falls burnt down last night.
For decades it had stood abandoned, gutted,
all semblance of purpose and life gone,
and yet still it stood with a certain magnificence,
a certain aura and mystery.
The roof had fallen in long before the flames,
and the rubble piled high on the collapsed floor.
Fences kept out the less curious,
and gaps in the chains let in those desperate
for a bit of shelter in the corners not yet collapse.
There was an old mattress there,
surrounded by books and wine bottles.
There were empty buckets of paint,
fragments of machinery, Candy wrappers and old needles.
Vines grew through the windows.
And still somehow, the walls stood tall.
A presence cared about, but not for,
The fire perhaps was a mercy. Who among us
wants to die a slow lingering death?
No, take us fast and furious, like the factory
with flames dancing in the sky,
one last moment of relevance in the dark night.
The Factory burned in Turners Falls last night.
and soon they will tear down the remaining walls,
too fragile and too dangerous to stand any longer.
All that will be left is a pile of rubble,
and perhaps, if they leave it, a fence,
a new kind of monument,
This one to the power of abandonment
and its inevitable result.
About this poem.
It’s about people, not a factory. Though the factory too, burned recently.