Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

The scale of the place
was measured by the space available
to house a cathedral or three
quite comfortably
the sense of being dwarfed
as we climbed the giant ramp
escorted last survivors
security guard shrunk in proportion
to the vastly tall window-panes
blaze of white sunset
blinds with blurred crosses
flashing in natural cosmic symphony
(typical connivance of the elements
with all grand total works of art)
blinded but smiling
our voices echoing by 3%
in the enormous garage
we hurry out of the glass doors
the only thing of puny normal size
and leave still awed
by the power of excavated space
the former power station's gaping emptiness
void specially reserved for art and architecture
yet still a monument to man's odd skill
in building things so very much higher
than himself (the massive steel girders
or font-sized screws) in sheer mastery
of oversize engineering
for no single human being can do
so much as close a door alone here
let alone effect an inch of change
without still tiny cranes
or toy scaffolding
a joke or mystery self-created
to resemble the work of a greater hand
made modest by the fact
that we are empowered to perform
at least these majestic feats
and make it look easy
and natural
in the process  

East Finchley