Day of The Pylons
One day, the pylons sat down for a rest,
shook off the cables, yanked up bolted feet
and kicked back. All the countryside was sprawled
with loafing metal giants. Power cut?
The last: this Atlas-race set down our world
of night time brightness on the grass beside them,
and armies couldn’t make them pick it up.
Negotiations failed: we lacked their language.
They didn’t know us for their former masters,
apologising only to the birds
for failing them in prime-time perching season
and that we worked
out only after toiling
to break their syntax: creaking, crackling,
a basic grasp of which killed many men.
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