Five Silos

Oh, this sun-burnished anvil of earth
Beneath a steely sky
Five silos, massive
Diminished in a forever landscape
Over which the trundlings of men
And their machinery
Leave ephemeral marks
Lingering only so long
As the labour which creates them

While I am but a moment’s reflection
An existential comma
In an expanse which cares not
That I think
Or that I think that I am

Not that I care
What the expanse thinks
Though I am glad that it is