Finnieston Crane

Finnieston Crane

What is it so moves me
about this rusty old skeleton?
Like a strong man grown old
a boxer in tears after his last fight
something tender in the rust
as muscle-bound hands struggling
daintily to hold up a bouquet of flowers
to a girl too young for him
hopeless maleness, a giant kneeling
the criss-cross shadows of afternoon light
play fretwork filigree across the rivets
still holding, each the size of a clenched fist
the grey bedlam of random stairs and gantries
like a battering ram to scale the walls of hell
bearing testimony yet to the price
men paid with all their working lives
for the granite and marble of Park Circus
from where the powdered wigs saw only these
grim scaffolds poking above the pall of smoke
Jolly Rodger piratical empire to rape the new world
the thousand ships the face of Helen launched
or Victoria, of Troy or London what’s the odds
this Trojan Horse has long since loosed its crew
all are past now, all are dust
and circled by barbed wire
a crown of thorns fallen at its feet
our giant is ignored again
by the passing cars and T-shirt generations
with tinted glass and television eyes and yet
they’ll miss the silent shadow
of our Leviathan and Behemoth
when slow rust takes its toll at last
and he who held a world in awe upon his back
is Ozymandias, king of kings laid low.

This entry was posted in Architecture, Art, History, Photography, Poetry, Psychology, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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