You walk the catwalk where the cranes stood tall
Salt crusts the rivets where the paint would fall
Six decades since the whistle last blew
I trimmed the wick and watched the dark break through
Now moss has swallowed what the builders knew
You trace the rust where gears once turned
The moss has claimed what fire earned
Your pale wings catch the dying light
You rest where steel surrenders night
You flutter past the boiler's cold iron mouth
The heavy fire door hangs open to the south
Six decades since the whistle last blew
I trimmed the wick and watched the dark break through
Now roots have cracked what the builders knew
You trace the rust where gears once turned
The moss has claimed what
