The Telegraph Pole
Telegraph poles are the tree of man
singing in the wind.
Cathedral spires of wood and wire
that shimmer in the wind.
They are a fat and wooden wand
marching off down every road
to carry aloft as if by magic
All of the words of the world.
And if we bury such beautiful things
out of sight down under the ground
or send words wireless through the air,
the world will be stripped of structure.
All roads robbed of multiple sculpture:
no stuttered lines of spindle sticks
back-lit black etched
on paper pale sky
From the new and factory stamp
of a moulded concrete pole
To the cracked and spattered patina
of a leaning lean old pole
these are beautiful things:
baked in sun and worn in wind,
their clumps of bolts and tangled wire
wild and looped like an old man’s hair.
And tell me what of the lines of homes
tethered to their poles and roads
like a roaming dog or a drifting boat,
what will become of them?
No longer anchored by their wires
they would slide off into the haze
to be lost in the land and swallowed
by shuffling zombie gums.
And consider this theologian:
the power pole is a short-armed crucifix,
so if we need to crucify some millions or more of men
the means are there at hand
standing by the road as they were in Rome
when Spartacus and all his friends
were hammered up to hurt them well
and curb such further insolence
SAVE THE POLES!
