These cranes are strong,
They lift steel from the yard,
They lift crates and boxes,
But they couldn't lift my heart.
I watch the sequence of motion,
Disjointed and cold,
I watch the gears and the motors,
I trade them off for stories told.
I hold a memory so carefully in a part of my heart,
We were stood, enclosed, between two cars,
In the cold outside of your mothers house,
(and then you kissed me on the mouth).
These cranes are old,
They have memories and souls,
Like a camera or a matchbox,
That your father trusts you to hold.
And they crawled out of the sea,
On those sharp, metal skeleton knees,
And I swear they looked almost like burned, blackened tree's,
As they stood creaking and swaying in the breeze.
