Mills Spun cotton casts a web upon the town. Dust arising from the yelling looms infiltrates the workers' living rooms, the soot filled smoke slowly settling down. Across the terraced houses, ranged in lines on cobbled streets, they hear the hooters blare signalling a change of shift, the hardware of machines are worshipped in their shrines. The mills are like cathedrals of the cursed louring over Rochdale in the rain. They hear the manufacturers refrain, "From labour, we get profit reimbursed". But during the American Civil War they refused to work with cotton picked by slaves and wished plantation owners in their graves, though they were hungry, out of work and poor. The towns of Lancashire were built by mills, the labour of the spinners toiling there. I hear their voices spinning through the air up from the plains into the Pennine hills.