Pylons

The metal towers that march in single file

Care not for walls or fences built by men,

From north to south, they stretch from mile to mile,

From east to west they cross, then back again.

Secure and still, no matter where they stand,

With arms outstretched to grasp the soaring wires;

Their army rules supreme through all the land,

A thousand, million men who never tire.

It seems they rule the world in which they dwell,

Without them this fair land would not survive,

Our working world would soon fall to its knees;

And yet we hold them harbingers of hell

That slash and cut our fields like flailing knives;

The metal towers, fair prospect, never please.

© C P Brooks 27/09/07