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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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Copyright by David Incoll 2001