The Wind Farm:
Elegy for a Cornish Village
Millennia shaped the landface
Weathered by the ever of time,
Winds curved the moorland shoulder
Rain flow carved the farming nooks.
As sun arcs the southern sky
Alien shadows point our compass
And ever moving flickers fleck
Stream, hill and eyelight.
Turbines take space in their stride
Shaking down money from skies,
Wind serves as their workhorse
Harnessed to rein in profit.
The level moor, the eyes edge,
Is spiked and overtopped,
Beech trees cede pre-eminence
The tower of the church is dwarfed.
Migrants from the man-made
Those seekers of green heartland,
Who sought soft landing here,
Will see their visions cloud.
That than which none is greater
Rises on high over our altars
Big boys wave their strength of arms
Above their new dominion.
The landscape rhythms are broken
The nature of dance has changed
And when the giants go marching in
The face of our land has gone.