WIND TURBINE                                                                                                                      



for my turn

at the city dump,

fingers tapping

irked and wear

I yawn, stretch the muscles in my neck;


a soft insistent whirr

guides my eyes upwards –

an awesome presence filling the sky

awkwardly overhead,

no domestic fan

but something similar

a monster,

some Leviathan,

its talons slicing the firmament

on those bright white uprights

a predatory praying mantis

primed to pounce,

to conquer,

to seduce



its drone mesmerizing


relentless in repetition,

a lingering continuo of industry,


oozing ambience

inducing reverie

that regular entrancing rhythm.


Jolted by the dog bark of the horn behind

I reach the ramp,

scaling it aloft

to scan the panorama -

a cohort of turbines,



churning quiet cacophony’,

all around,


defeating the dullness of the dump,

in eclipse.


I was enduring a long wait at Avonmouth Dump, which is blessed with several wind turbines nearby and one right overhead. They are M5 landmarks and produce an insistent whirring sound whose effect inspired this poem.

wind turbine.jpg