A convocation of pylons considers how to celebrate country-wide conversion to renewable energy

by Helen Overell

Were they to dance –

           the girdered piecemeal sky would limber up,
           cables would be swung for skipping ropes,

there would be sparks –

           fierce fire in stuttered arcs, in zig-zag strike
           on latticed steel, zinged buzz of seared scar,

they would be clad –

           skeletal frames in kirtled folds of gold,
           in gauzy wraps tied with ribboned flame,

and they would sing –

           buoyant as the path light paints on water,
           insistent as ocean, as gull’s cry,

this would be heard –

           the least riffled squeak of long gone creatures
           left undisturbed, no longer squandered.