Moodna Viaduct

It's your unbowed and accurate line I love,
a thing that rarely ever occurs in nature,
the protest of your thrust, your gallant push
across the sky between the passive hills;
the ballsy umph that drops a laughing no
down to the green come-hither of the fields,
as over birds in high defiant black
your hubris stretches and will never break

until the town past the next station stop
has eased its last ghost out, until all towns
that quietly doze around the last wide arc
darken and sleep. Until then, span the world,
despite the earth's pull and the push of storms,
an iron stride across the common ground.

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