Soar Angel

It rose to tyrannise
Our views, industrialise
Our skies.
Its cold pale pillar
Pushed up like a sunless stem
Into the astonished air.
A gigantic pin in the map of our lives,
Resented.

Armed with three blades
Ready to cut down opposition,
Don Quixote's monster,
Waiting for challenge.

Then its arms began to turn,
Slowly, slowly,
Spinning light from dull air,
Warmth from icy gusts,
Sending sparking threads in a bright web,
And, quietly, without fuss,
Transformed itself into a sculpture.
Three-winged
Angel of the Soar.