Nature Poems

	Pylons People say they march I can't see it myself More like anorexic trees They curse the horizon Wiry fingers hold their volts Above the mat of green fields Sun bars trap them in The amber sap of evening Wires hum as if to fend Some foe away. They stick Black-boned hands into the sky Making inky fingerprints Standing much less like guards More like frightened men Shocked to discover their roots Fixed with heavy boots To me there is no marching Merely a clumsy bafflement Over the long-flattened graves Of palaeolithic branches © David Incoll 2001
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