Simon Wilson
The Shadow Mill
As a small boy, the mill was a place of mystery to me. Stacks of wood filled the yard, signs told me to keep out and noise emerged from a variety of vents in the wall. Sometimes there would be a scent of fresh sawdust, sometimes the smell of scorched wood.
Then it fell silent. Paint peeled on the signs, grass grew in the yard and machinery was piled outside. Rust clogged the cogs and weeds wove their way through. We saw no more lorries.
Returning recently, when I had the urge to show my kids where I grew up, I found many changes. Stainless steel curlicues have replaced the rusting machinery in the yard, which now houses BMWs instead of weeds. The factory has tall windows and plants. As we walked past, the smell of fresh coffee wafted over us.
The new sign reveals it is a marketing and design studio. Where they once made trees into timber they now turn words into concepts, as the shadows of the past merge with the smoke and mirrors of today.
memories my father talks of his youth I wish I could remember all his stories . . . too late now
About the Author
Simon Wilson has been a poultry farmer, salesman, antique dealer, gardener, and instructor on a Care Farm. He now works in a coin shop and wishes he had tried harder at school.