Who agreed the purchase of the land.
Who packed boulders into foundation trenches,
their sleeves rolled back, their robes kilted,
heaving stone and wood
With the sweat of man upon it,
Hauling into sight the dream of future years.
They were not angels,
Who flattened the land and built the sheds,
Who worked high on gantries, plying the rivets,
In noise, in confusion, and danger, and delay.
Their floating towers screeching down
upon a slipway to the sea.
Sliding into silence-
pride- like broken bottles on wasteground.
Reach out for the plane,
Slide your finger-tips here,
Here you belong.
And pride coming back like the turn of the tide,
The wind on the water, each keel slicing by,
And hauling into sight the dream of future years,
Our vision, our work, our mark, our life,
Not angels, but people - the makers of worlds.