Empty Pole Land

Perverse primordial transmission mast;
in the square
on a cartwheel
horizontal on a roof-high pole
sits a loose collection of sticks, stems,
mud,
rustling, creaking in the dry dust wind.

It is the village at dusk;
noiseless, voiceless,
the white storks
have finally flown.

Those long-distance migrants
- now flapping and soaring,
seeking pairings for breeding,
strangely settling
for nests near human clutches -
now dispense blessings on humbler huts,
eat swarming locusts,
share sacred pastures.

Gregarious flame birds
feed in solitude, fly in formation,
gather to roost at the end of the day.

Meantime,
dispensed with under empty poles,
the villagers despair
of a return.

Meantime,
patented cash seeds blow
over geometrical prairies,
strewn by Saints of monoculture.

No hedgerodents,
no pondbeasts, no wildweedbugs,
to fill their motley pantry,
the storks have flown
surrendering
their candid cloths
to barren homes.