Pylon

the breeze carries traffic sounds across a tractor- scarred farmland... pylons above the bypass reiterate the vantage point of a buzzard...houses with grey blue slates ... nearly rhythmical murmur of the pines and far-heard traffic ... that’s how it always starts ... the engine of the reservoir, the soft light starts the red brick mantles of estates... the woman has her left arm raised to shoulder level and bent at the elbow ... that gesture... this, together with the smile that implies a kind of sorrow... someone has written austerity on her body ... the stranger carefully underlines the... noises from the steelworks across her shoulder... the bus crawls on all fours wheezing in the sun...... heads sink under blocked grates...a cul de sac ...a coffin emerges from a front door and is carried...to the end of the street...a blackbird is singing through the brick wall...