The Pylon And The Scarf

A silk scarf of crimson elevates,
Levitates,
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,
Playfully,
(Lovingly?),
Higher,
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 -
Abandoned,
Abandons itself,
In turn,
To the pagan power line,
And rests.

And falls,
Like a spaceman.