The Plantsters Vision

 Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong,
 Pouring their music through the branches bare,
 From moon-white church towers down the windy air
Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.

Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!
 Too many babies have been born in there,
 Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,
Carried the old their garden paths along.

I have a Vision of the Future, chum,
 The workers' flats in fields of soya beans
 Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:
And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come
 From microphones in communal canteens
 "No Right! No Wrong! All's perfect, evermore!"

Email Poem |