Saturday, 4 September 2010

The Pylon And The Scarf

A silk scarf of crimson elevates,

Like a sky-bound alien manta ray;
The deep glowing slate heavens shimmer,
Casting the pylon a mysterious aura of golden silver,
And reflects a light so fierce:
A totem of shining mirror.

The darkest cream grey sky,
Whisked and liquefied,
All passive-aggressive,
Blasts down still-life breaths,
Pummelling the mustard grass,
Like bleached wig hair,
Sucked up into a cyclonic vacuum cleaner's vortex.

Brooding tides of air currents,
Caress and lift this abandoned scarf,
As it arcs the beaming pylon,
In spirals it drifts.

This pylon,
Like a dancer frozen:
A bashful pageant Christ,
His six energy-god arms seem to outstretch,
Perhaps to catch her?

The orphaned scarf,
Here in the so silent day after a night -
Abandons itself,
In turn,
To the pagan power line,
And rests.

And falls,
Like a spaceman.