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