The industry to the east has gone west – no more bees and alligators, instead there’s Tesco and Porsche.
Why make when you can buy?
Meadow Mill has long since ceased to spin and weave – currently undergoing adaptation into modern residential living.
I though, have always been fascinated by the rough ground that now seems so left behind.
Where once I found a weathered book of lost photographs.
This is a scarred and neglected landscape, even the developer’s sign has given up the ghost.
There are brambles, buddleia, rough grass and teasels amongst the rubble.
The remnants of roads, kerbed and tarred, strewn with hastily dumped detritus.
Puddled and forlorn.
Enter beneath the M60, where the Tame and Goyt conjoin to become the Mersey, a dimly lit passage home to the itinerant aerosol artistes.
All that remains of the long gone mills – the concrete base.
Detritus tipped and strewn, amongst the moss.
The remnants of roads going nowhere.
Surrounded by cars going nowhere.
Contemporary architecture creating cavernous canyons.
A landscape forever changing, caught between expectation and fulfilment, paradise forever postponed.
This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.