Sunday afternoon tranquillity,

as cars sleep in their holes.

There are no dogs barking or chasing golf balls,

no domestics going on within the 'Brookside' houses,

strewn all along - not one soap sod leaking.

Further along the view,

stand the concrete giants,

immortalised kilns conducting power.

Grey Titans that oppose the green,

urban – rural - it's mad - it's obscene.

Are they Gods or just demons in stone?

The fairway all a part of the cell,

connected to the invading circuitry,

whilst these,

spiky fingers,

point from Pylon metal warlords,

all in love with Electra.

A club hits home and the microbe ball in comparison,

rockets up to the falcon’s view

of a town being fed its power.

 

©David Addington 1998

Burton upon Trent