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REMEMBERING THE BONE MILL
Driving along the highway my nose was awaken by a smell,
That, at first, I could not remember at all, could not tell
What memories were stirring deep within my memory,
Then in a flash the remembrance came flooding back to me.
The old bone mill, with it’s creaking worn weigh bridge,
By the cows field and the stream that made a deep ridge,
Coloured off-white with the flying smelly bone dust.
As children to avoid it when possible was a real must.
When the wind blew from the north-east it was a curse,
In the summer heat and humidity it was much worse,
Truck loads of animal bones, dripping blood down the lane,
It used to give me nightmares, but never dare to complain.
For we lived in the Potteries where the best bone china was made,
Translucent, very fine, yet strong, and lots of money was paid
To own a bone china dinner service, with serving dishes as well,
Earthenware was shunned by those who put up with the smell.
Childhood memories of holding my nose as I ran by fast,
As off to the cow field I went, to the water a line to cast
Into the stream, or make a daisy chain, or pick marigolds,
It was surprising just how fast many memories did unfold.
The bone mill closed down many years ago, sorry to say,
They extract the bone for the china in a different way,
For awhile the empty shell of the mill stood sad and bleak,
As if it too wished many old memories it too could seek.
As I eat my meal on an English bone china plate I think
Of my childhood days, and of friends now gone I do think,
How many remember the mill with it’s old weigh bridge,
The cow field with the bend in the stream and it’s deep ridge?
(Millicent) Ann Margetson October 23, 2002