2

Individual pylons are okay

But near Southend they come in feral clumps

Like teenagers on heat.

Even autumn's colours are subdued

 By greying lumps strung out across the bland

Decaying flats.

Morose commuters, on their wy to work

Ignore the slow decline

Towards the east

Assuming London life will be enough

To overwrite abandoned nights

In numbing purgatory.

Meanwhile the smirking pylons watch the trains

Trundle on, then trundle back again

To Southend's terminus.

Brian Hick November 2010

©copyright Sally Hick 11.11.22