Pylons

Somewhere between Cavan and Dublin, trying to catch the very dramatic clouds from a car window.

The Pylons

The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made,
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages.

Now over these small hills
they have built the concrete
That trails black wire:
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude, giant girls that
have no secret.

The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the
parched bed of a brook.

But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightning's danger
There runs the quick
perspective of the future.

This dwarfs our emerald
country by its trek
So tall with prophecy:
Dreaming of cities
Where often clouds shall lean
their swan-white neck.

Stephen Spender