Pylons Poem by Gert Strydom

Like watchtowers stretching
far past the horizon
big giants of naked blue-grey steel
cut across the fields back to the source of raw power.

Interwoven in houses as a part
of the construction wires run
back to poles on farms,
in villages, towns and cities
and people have the use of electricity
in lights, appliances and machines.

How primitive does life feel
when the spark of lightning for a time is gone,

from the pylons
that hose it down into our existence.