Inveresk

Under these folds of tin

men worked.

Vertical panels

to hold in the noise

and keep out the weather.

Windows illuminating machinery

highlighted dust

and oil and steam

and dangerous places.

This was a heavy lifting shed

where big and heavy men

made big and heavy things.

Lives were followed and celebrated

and expended here,

daily routines of clocking on

smoko and dinner and overtime,

acres of sweat and grime

and muscle and voices,

shouts of instruction

and warning,

and laughter

and friendship

amongst the steel

and the iron and the wood.

High ceilings

tall doors

straight tracks

thick girders

large spaces

echoes noise life.

This was a central place,

a heart,

an engine room of empire

an industrial beehive

making mending moulding

repairing.

It is quiet now,

ghostly,

just the hum of the heaters

and the hushed huddle

of patrons of the arts

visiting

for the first time perhaps

this homage to industrial man,

now cleaned and polished

and encased in glass

reborn to a second life of service

in this post-industrial world.