How unsightly by day <br />Those old telephone lines <br />Back in the nineteen forties <br />Erratic moirés of copper <br />Thrust skyward <br />On flaking wooden poles <br />Marching to the contours of the streets <br />Forests of desiccated trees <br />Wearing conformist branches <br />And ugly porcelain fruit <br />Whilst the ever present wind <br />Played soft or shrill <br />Heard clearly by animal and child <br />Those singing wires in the valley. <br /> <br />In the late afternoon <br />Birds descended to their haven <br />Rehearsing a nightly concert <br />Moving restlessly <br />From one stave to another <br />Living chords orchestrated <br />In depth and breadth <br />Against southward clouds <br />In darkening mood <br />Colour distils from the sky <br />Birds settle into silence <br />The medley of wind and wire remains <br />As we slept.<br /><br />Thomas Golding<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/under-the-singing-wire/
