TimeSprint

 

(At Kelham Island Museum)

 

In this part of Sheffield

Everyday living is hushed

And the rumbles of the past

Have ceased their rolling

 

A black foundry bucket,

Tall as a house,

Looms empty

Weighty with dreams of the molten steel

That used to ooze and spark from its lip.

 

The museum itself is a tomb

Of dustlessness,

Perfumed with engine grease;

Hissing with air that fizzes

A mechanical sibilance

Within which are subdued screeches

Of metal, whispering

 

We are herded

Ourselves

               Our thoughts

To this hall.

We wait. We look

 

There is a bell to be strummed

With fingertips

A tank-like panel of steel

To wonder at-

Thicker than a big man's hand-

There are boards to be read

Or not read

 

Anticipation

Inhale, exhale

Breathe in, breathe out,

Seethe and shimmer

 

Above all, an engine to consider

Taking up so much space as to be part of it.

Thin copper pipes

Gleam like a festival

Chasing round paintwork

Of green and red

Across the balustrade there

That hulks over a shadowy recess

Where pistons lurk

​

Midday.

The guardian speaks

We are primed

The engine is primed

The race is on

 

An industrial pumping buzz of metal and steam

Smell of wintergreen, fizzing, a hum

Bass-note of thunder, a whack

between the eyes and ears

Energy: Power: Energy

High velocity nozzles and flow

Pistons move

Thrusting sinuously

in circular motion

Power: Energy: Power

Two minutes of absolute history

Whack, thunder

Buzz, steam, metal

Pistons move

Sinuously

Subside at the appointed time

In a post-mechanical haze

 

We.

We are left dazed

And still wonder:

What of the folk

For whom such rhythms

Were life and livelihood?

 

Should we lament or admire?

 

This industrial relic

With its licence to roar

Two times each day

Without any purpose

Is a ferocious machine

Still of such power

As to leave us gasping.

​

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Tracy Twell