Survivors Poetry

The Wind Farm Man
(06/03/10)

My boundaries are breached.
Nowhere now can I feel alone
or wholly safe.
Always in my head this man
with his monitor stuck in the memories of my grass.
He is about to come
unbidden
up my lane, through the fields, between the trees.
My deepest dread cannot deter him.
He comes
into my silence
and serves out his sentence ...
then leaves;
but not entirely:
my house and gardens are covered with loathing.
All winds now fan my fury
at his folly and hubris.
His emissions are wrapped up in a tissue
of lies
for disposal;
but a three-year constant threat remains
of his grandiose intent
trussed up to be good for me,
for all men, all women,
for the entire planet.
No view now or ever will be free of him.
No moment again quiet as before mankind;
nor even sun nor moon is safe from him
and his lunatic strivings.
My private garden his mad limbs will flail over.
My inner rooms in distorting light will flicker.
The moon through naked windows will shudder
with the pulse of his vibrating thugs.

This tiny fool
among a million others
sits astride the stool of self
and must make his mark;
must follow his cock
and bull stories
and smash through or subdue
all in the way,
all who will not lie down and take it  
quietly
saying nothing
putting up no struggle
against this outrageous rape
of land and sea and sky
mountain and lake
fell and moorland
hill and highland
no matter where or what or who or why.
With purblind ambition
it is my life and mind already
he has destroyed -
though his wind farm
has yet to come.

Poem by Mary Myfanwy Evans