The Planster’s Vision

Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong,

    Pouring their music through the branches bare,

    From moon-white church-towers down the windy air

Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.

Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!

    Too many babies have been born in there,

    Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,

Carried the old their garden paths along.

I have a Vision of The Future, chum,

    The workers’ flats in fields of soya beans

      Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:

And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come

    From microphones in communal canteens

      “No Right! No Wrong! All’s perfect, evermore.”