Build

 

Build

 

We don’t build anything good anymore,

don’t drill, don’t pump, don’t mine -

no shipbuilding on the Clyde or Tyne,

or coal- fired plants that yawn and roar

bite into landscapes with feral force,

to turn the mills, to tap the source.

Honour Owen Williams’ M1 bridges -

block concrete stalwart staples stitch fabric

warps, majestic wefts, hauling traffic

to docks, to ports and to the world.

Now windmills squat by potholes -

silk spinning spiders in milk white cloaks,

vast fields sewn with rooted mirrors who live

and are all the better to see you with

whilst catching the setting sun over Albion.

They’re tapping on our broken pipes

- hey, who switched off the lights -

in morse codes, help, save my sole  -

tinpot echoes from drought linked cells

of dripping cloying honeycomb,

our millions indolent stay-at-homes –

paid in crypto to forget coined in iron,

told they’re sick, to give up trying

and, if they forget, then they maybe are –

to replace petrol with electric car,

remove hard shoulders and call it smart,

rebrand telegraph poles as abstract art.