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The children were small...
And...
We would wander around a museum,
Pickings of the carcase of what had been
The Great Western Railway.
Items of former glory neatly labelled,
A mock- casual arrangement
Of sugar-coated collective memory,
The public autopsy of faded splendour;
The Gigantic Vision of Victorian Optimism
Shrink-wrapped in
Push-button touch-screen child-heaven Fun.
Before the virtual ride on a footplate (television windows),
The pull on a whistle chain (toot toot),
Or diagrammatic models explained in
Primary-coloured Heritage Kiddy-speak...
Before all that I always had my moment,
A private, illogical connection with the past.
Four seconds of a monochrome man,
No reason why, just one among thousands,
Leaving the engine works and
Caught on a lens in permanent sun,
Decades before.
Like constant retakes in front of the camera,
He always walked his documentary walk
Across the projection on the wall,
Each time lowering his head
And adjusting his hat in shades of grey.
A losing struggle with industrial life
Reduced to a ticking shadow
As it disappeared
In the direction of
The plastic pencil sharpeners
In the Museum Shop.
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