WEBVTT

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And this is a poem
actually called

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The Pylons, which I'm afraid is
responsible for that name being

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attached to us.

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And it's really
about, it's a poem.

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Again it's a very
photographic poem.

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It's thinking of photographs
of pylons against a white sky

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and that kind of thing.

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And it's about a part
of the country called

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the Cotswolds in
England where there's

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a very rather small closed in
kind of landscape of low hills

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and very pretty
villages built of stone.

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The secret of these hills
was stone, and cottages

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of that stone made, and
crumbling roads that turned

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on sudden hidden villages.

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Now over these small hills,
they have built the concrete,

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the trails black wire.

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Pylons, those pillars
bear like nude giant girls

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that have no secret.

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The valley with its
guilt and evening

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look and the green
chestnut of customary root

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are mocked dry like the
parched bed of a brook.

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But far above and far as
site endures like whips

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of anger with
lightning's danger,

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there runs the quick
perspective of the future.

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This dwarfs our emerald
country by its trek so tall

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with prophecy,
dreaming of cities

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where often clouds shall
lean their swan white neck.