The machines must be fed constantly
not just with oil - they take the arms and fingers
of those who tend them. They invade the dreams
of the workers, who hear their clattering
even in the furthest reaches of sleep.
So we creep by night into factories.
Ned Ludd - general of the armies of night -
is with us. His strength was in my arm
when I smashed the machine loom, smashed and smashed.
Strength like the grip of ivy, crushing
stone and metal. The power of roots is in him,
relentlessly pushing up from the earth.
He is the land fighting back, rising up.
against the encroaching iron and steel.
by Yvonne Aburrow
Inspired by A choice of worldings by Rhyd Wildermuth