The sun was shining through the clouds at Spode this afternoon giving everything a moody look.
Grey clouds, leaden
A glimmer of sun
Bright, yellow, hot
Sizzles through the clouds.
Humid heat festers
Industrial view languishes
Only a few plants
And a cat sleeping in the dust,
Better than ruins.
No not the trade marked version. But old windows at Spode. Dusty and dirty and empty of footsteps, no faces staring out of them, no lights behind them, no shapes of pottery stacked. Life is quiet for the factory, silent. The place is shunned, surplus to requirements. How can it still exist?
Time passes, new movement as people take up spaces. Shift of light, shift of direction. Art and theater, people sleep on site now in the hotel. The chance to regenerate like a time lord. The site has age and power behind it. The ghosts look on, seeing the lights, wondering what will happen next. Will they be evicted from the deep soft clay dust that coats their footprints and hides their breath.
Your bricks and windows are staring down at me,
a cold wind picks up the few scattered leaves that have invaded the space.
As the sun sets the air glows frozen grey blue,
Pouring cold into green grey tarmac surrounded by factory buildings.
Water droplets frost the car windscreens sitting on the parking lot,
“We are watching you” you seem to whisper, and, I look up to see what may be there.
But just blank and broken windows look back in a long black stare.
Getting in my car I carefully wash away the mist, old buddlea branches scraping the paintwork,
left and left again, into the street, and away from old creeping ghosts and memories of Clay.