Drax

This is the cloud factory
exhaling a smoker's fog of twisting cumulus
over the road and through the trees.

Cooling towers howl out a downpour,
beg rain from air until the sky weeps
let me go, free me, I am empty.

All pylons come to this point,
sucking energy from towns and houses,
an intravenous parasite in the body of our land.

This is why England is overcast.