Under The Singing Wire Poem by Thomas Golding

How unsightly by day
Those old telephone lines
Back in the nineteen forties
Erratic moirés of copper
Thrust skyward
On flaking wooden poles
Marching to the contours of the streets
Forests of desiccated trees
Wearing conformist branches
And ugly porcelain fruit
Whilst the ever present wind
Played soft or shrill
Heard clearly by animal and child
Those singing wires in the valley.

In the late afternoon
Birds descended to their haven
Rehearsing a nightly concert
Moving restlessly
From one stave to another
Living chords orchestrated
In depth and breadth
Against southward clouds
In darkening mood
Colour distils from the sky
Birds settle into silence
The medley of wind and wire remains
As we slept.