Windfarm Poems
My Hill
They're going to build a wind-farm on my hill.
That hill I see across the valley now.
My Hill.
They say I do not own my hill.
I have no title-deeds, no legal right,
No valid interest in what they're going to do.
It's not enough to say I love that hill
Have seen it in a thousand different moods
Enjoyed for many years its peace, its calmness,
Its Stability.
It's not enough to say I love to stand
And watch cloud shadows slide across its face,
To say how I enjoy its dignity and majesty.
I will admit to being green
Fearing Chernobyl in this pleasant land,
And I was one who thought the answer must
Be blowing in the wind.
But I have seen, since then, on other people's hills,
The lines of urgent, waving, drowning arms
That crowd their distant skies.
No more will 'jocund day
Stand tiptoe on my misty mountain top'.
Instead I'll see the flailing three-armed cross
On which my peace of mind is being crucified
And cry
Michael Tod
****
Melinau gwynt Ystumtuen The Windmills of Ystumtuen
Mae melinau gwynt Ystumtuen The windmills of Ystumtuen
fel olwynion mawr y ffair, are like the big wheel at the
yn dair cyllel yn torri'r awyr, fair,
fel peiriannau golchi'n y gegin, the three blades cutting the sky,
yn dair braich yn chwipio'r like washing machines in the
cymylau, kitchen,
yn chwibanu wrth chwifio'u coesau, the three arms beating the clouds,
yn troi y gwynt fel ffan, whistling while waving their legs,
yn cylchdroi fel peiriannau turning in the wind like a fan,
awyren, circling like a plane's
yn llif gadwyn ar y bryniau, propellers,
yn dal adar yn eu breichiau, like chain saws in the hills,
yn lladd llonyddwch Llwernog, catching birds in their arms,
a ddaeth yn llechwraidd fel killing the peace of Llywernog,
llwynog, they came as sly as a fox,
yn codi fel madarch dros nos, rising like mushrooms overnight
a sefyll yn rhes ar y rhos and standing in a row on the moor,
yn ymarfer karate â'u breichiau, practising karate with their arms,
yn hollti'r gwynt a'r tawelwch, splitting the wind and the quietness
yn malu'r gwynt yn drydan, grinding the wind into electricity
mae melinau gwynt Ystumtuen, are the windmills of Ystumten
gan bacio poced Powergen. packing the pockets of Powergen.
A Welsh poem composed by pupils of Mynach School and Syr John Rhys School with the poet Iwan Llwyd, with English translation.
First published by 'Gwaith Maes'
A Scottish poem against windfarms
Wind power, or wildlife?
Ye've sat an' listened, real polite,
An' heard the mannie's spiel; an'
Tae unenlichten'd fowk, he might
Come ow'r a genuin' chiel; The time is comin' on this road
Whan we maun mak' the choice:
Atween wir greed, for eeseless gowd
- Or wildlife, withoot voice;
But ask yersel's, "Why here, Why now,
Dae they this 'Offer' mak'?"
For they hae caus'd a fearfu' row,
An' that's their first mistak'
For, should this treach'rous plan go on
Their habitat ye'll brak,
An' in short time, yer choice hae shown
A "Wilderness" sure mak.
Noo, thinkin' fowk hae spent some time
Considerin' their plan,
But arnae fool'd by "Gran' Design"
An' fecht it, tae a Man.
For whilst the tod, & brock, & deer
Can fit tae Man's design
For rarer beasts, it is, I fear,
The finish o' their line.
For Ye should ken the picter-hale
Afore ye mak' yer choice;
An' so, noo hear a diff'rent tale
Fae this dissentin' voice.
For rare's the Cat, an scarce the Marten
That bide aboot the wid;
An' seen ye'll ken o' their departin'
If ye admit his bid.
The wid is broke, their kitty teem,
Nae siller mair they hae;
An' so tae raise the win' my frien',
They'll sell the breeze away.
The caper-cock is aa' but lost
Through pure mismanagement
Denied they are o' nat'ral host
By Greed o' men, Hell-bent,
But if ye pass thae Chancers' plan
The end result is clear -
The only wildlife left tae haun'
Will be a puckle deer.
On plantin' methods o' ill choice,
Denyin' groun' the licht,
Wi' nae a berry-seed o' choice
Tae see him thro' the nicht.
An' tae extinction, locally
The scarce stuff ye'll consign,
An' aa' fowk here, an's yet tae come
Deny thae beasts their time.
Just twenty year, is aa' it's tane
For sic a change tae come,
Fae num'rous stock, tae few they've gane
Aa' by the "Work" o' Some;
Noo, aa' the wildlife lik' the Sun,
Its warmth upon their back;
But if the win'-mills here shall run
They'll nae be comin' back;
Nae mair the hawk tae roam the hill
An hunt for her game-meat;
Gone are her wings and piercin' shrill
For noo, she's surely beat;
For East & South the hill daes run
- Whaur morning licht is found,
An' in the rays of risin' Sun
The beasts & birds abound.
A new refuge, she'll hae tae fin'
If this gey plan gaes throu'
An' teem, the sky abeen is syne
Ere she is gane fae view.
And what is Man without the birds
An' nat'ral craiters roun'?
Will life be better for oor kin'
Wi aa'thing aa' caa'd doon?
But o' that task, she'll hae defeat
Ow'r Scotland up an' doun:
- Nae falcon yet, has ever beat
The prop-blades furlin' roun'
The troots, o' burnie waters clear
Hae lang since been denied,
Wi' acid trees fae nae ow'r here
The plantin' has been tried The problem sure, here is, forsooth
Is nane o' Them clear sees
The Bigger Picter o' the truth
O' the widdie, for the trees!
An' blackcock- grouse an' mottle hen
Disturbance winna stan',
An' fae oor lan' expire again
At Mankin's greedy haun'
The rare stuff's scarce, because they need
Some secret, quiet place
But gi'-en ow'r to mankin's greed
It's sure they'll quit, at pace.
They try tae tell us it's the weet
That's killed the population;
But since they've felt the 'Vermin's' feet
They've suffer'd decimation.
An' replicate this ow'r the land
An' shortly ye shall see
The death o' them, by graspin' haund
An' wildlife-poverty.
An' damn the finger will They raise
Tae ease their plight this day;
Preferring "Expert" chiels tae praise,
Whilst watchin' them decay.
For makin' gowd is this crew's prize
An' tae Hell wi' aa' the rest,
For flailin' wings' o' muckle size
Is aa' that they ken best.
Their hairstin' toy, ye'll hear it moan, Aa' day, an' half the nicht,
Wi fearfu' racket, rummlin' on,
An' kern o' flashin' licht.
An' aa because this desp'rate laird
Wi' siller he maun play -
He'd sell the very air an' yird
If buyers, he could hae!
If Ye were nestin' in that airt,
Wi aa' that licht an' soun'
Ye'd lik'wise certainly seen pairt
Ere vexin' row deed doon.
Bit blin' leads blin' on merry dance,
Till they en' up gey sure;
The only plan wi' half a chance
Is theirs - simple, an' pure.
We "Pay the Piper " in this case,
But He decides the tune,
Wi' "Expert" haun' the hills he'll grace
The harmfu' timmer roun'
An' aa' because the powr's that be
They winna heed advice
Fae emin-ent lads that can see
Nae virtue in their vice.
Tho' aa' can see, where they're employed
The wildlife's lost desire;
- Their habitat has been destroyed
An' situation dire.
The R.A.E hae said their piece
Upon the matter, clear
And give the Lie tae them, wham Fleece
Wad pu', ow'r e'e, an' ear.
Tae cap it aa' - they mak' a loss
An' for aa' this, we pay,
Whil' "Clever men" wi' timmer-dross
In God-lik' style they play!
But Politicians and their crews,
Hae chosen tae ignore
Their warnin' words, and cautious views,
In quest for ever-More.
For surely better, it wad be
Tho' loss it made as weel,
A wid-environment tae see
That left aa' wildlife weel.
Professor Laughton is the lad
Who 'rained' on their parade,
When in "The Times" he hurt them bad
In con-trary tirade.
But, as we ken, they're thick o' skin,
An' nae guid tae show wrong,
Despite the "Maist immoral sin"
O' challenging Their "song"
Aye, seen, when Simple Truth comes oot,
Nae mair 'twill be sae gran'
Fan they fin' they must dae withoot
Misguided helpin' haun'.
The words o' wisdom he supplied
They've chosen to ignore,
Yet aa' ken, Steady, is the win'
That's found weel aff the shore.
51But!
Tae hear them spik, ye'd scarce believe
Their pow'r wis twice as dear
An' thousan'-fold mair scarce, perceive
As that fit's nocht each year.
But Costs are mair, for sea-plac'd mills,
An' something has tae give,
And thus, They choose tae spoil our hills
Whaur rarest species live.
For seen, the French, that they miscaa'
Will hae tae sell them pow'r
As South Dictates, their needs, nae sma',
An' growin' by the hour.
For value to them, has it nane
An' hin'ers their design;
An' better pleas'd they'll be, dear frien'
Whan they've strung oot their line.
For jist tae keep tae wi' demand
O' annual increment,
Six-thousan' mills, they wid command
To our hillsides be sent.
The ir'ny is, that we maun pay
For aa' this wicked wark,
An' trade oor wildlife here away
For a worthless wind-mill park.
An nae jist ance, but ilka year
Sic scheme they would be bent
On placin' a that flailin' gear
Tae gie - jist Two Percent!
An' qwet he is, when we point out
The West has win' the maist
For mair, it costs tae ship it oot
On pow'r-lines ow'r there plac'd.
Sustainable? that canna be,
As ony feel does know;
Yet try us, wi' this plan, they dae,
An' hope we'll gaur it go.
Nah!
Smash-and-Grab-it, while they can,
Afore their ploy is rumml'd
For sensible, strategic plan
Wad see their day-dreams humml'd.
Ha!
Yet, here in Scotland, we've success
An' even noo, send doun,
The greater pairt o' our excess
Tae licht some Southern Toun.
But time is short, ere they maun try
Their plans tae implement,
- A cauld win's comin', them tae dry
Fae Southern Government.
For need o mair spark, we hae nane,
- Renewables we hae
A bounteous hairst o' lashin' rain,
Comes every ither day!
For they rely on subsidy,
Paid by the public purse,
Bit "Gordon" thinks he'd seener gie
Tae Bobby, or tae Nurse.
The Hydro schemes provide our spark,
- The rest we sell away;
But:
For English needs, we'll be their 'Park'
An' dearly, shall we pay.
For, nae sic thing, He'd kid ye's on,
Is wind-blaw in the Sooth;
- Yet evr'y winter, tiles blaw aff
The English mannies roof
An' chop-an'-changin's ill tae dae
As ithers hae foun' oot
An' nae a man, yet, could weel say
Fu' whaun, the win' blaws oot.
Well "Think Again!" - as Danes hae dane,
An' try anither plan;
For noo, some late, they sair hae seen
The foolishness o' Man.
So, nae a grain o' CO2,
His gran' design will save
But smairtly wreck the tourists view,
An' gaur the wildlife leave.
Aye, Come's the day, when they dae rue,
The folly o' their deeds; For
Nae better are they aff, the noo,
O' turbines' changin' speeds.
The Tourists hae win'mills at hame,
An' better, they wad hike,
The wilds o' Scotland, left, untamed,
Than swampit wi' their like.
But o' wild-life, they are the waur
Wi' mony beasts forgane
An' sim'lar fate these Gowks will gaur
Aboot here, ere they're dane.
An' ither Countries, less weel bless'd
Wi natural resource,
Dae manage fine tae dae their best,
An' steer a better course.
Just think aboot fit's bein' propos'd
An' how little, we will gain,
- So little pow'r should be opposed
For sic muckle, needless, pain.
For East fae here, the watters ow'r,
Noo Danes, scrap-timmer burn;
For heat an' licht, an' 'lectric pow'r,
They mak it dae the turn.
For, even if the win's should blow
Fae noo till Kingdom come,
A mi-nute contribution show
For aa' the damage done.
While here sae muckle o' the trees, are Nae eese, for Joiner-wark;
Yet burn it wad, an' lik'-wise please,
If we pursued their mark.
An' o' that pow'r they'd generate
I must relay, in truth,
Aboot a quarter shall be lost
Afore it reaches South.
A toun the same size as Huntly,
Is nae ill tae supply;
An' wi' the wids o' Strathbogie,
We'd never-fear rin dry.
And!
Be certain that ye winna dae
The ozone layer nae guid
If pass this plan he's made tae ye,
- O this, be 'ware, ye should;
An' carbon-neutral is that pow'r
An' jobs tae fowk dis gie,
As loads are conveyed ev'ry hour
By lads in trucks, ye see.
For, ilka Watt that they'll produce
Anither place maun, tae;
And nae a speck o' gas, reduce
The burnin', fae the sea.
Wi' "Them", the jobs wad scarce be seen
If ony ever are,
O' main-ten-ance-men, there's but ane
For the turbines o' Novar.
For whan the win' decides tae stop
As this week bye has shown
The mannies God-sent pow'r will drop,
An' syne - his cover's blown!
An' benefit tae local shops
Will nae be felt about,
For wind is ane o' them rare crops
That seems tae dae withoot.
So!
Few are them that wad enjoy
The win'-fairm-man's pay-letter;
For scarce a pair, they shall employ,
An' shops will fare nane better.
An' so the choice is doon tae You
O' that we're aa' real sure -
Wildlife for aa' tae tak' a view
- Or siller, an' Greed, pure.
Whereas, if mony hae some wark,
They'd buy their earran's here
Their meat an' drink, an' beets an' sark
Wad bring the merchants cheer.
For said, it has been here, afore,
In voices, saft an' loud
We hiv nae need, for ever more
O' pooches on a shroud.
Aye! Buyin' fowk are nocht in toon
Tae keep it in guid heart;
For, if ye let shop-keepers doun
In due course they'll depairt.
So!
Enjoy the wild beasts, while ye can,
- For seen, there is nae doot
If this gey lads push throu' their plan,
They'll see the wildlife oot.
An' doun the road ye'll hae tae run
Tae fetch stuff, fae afar
An' for the auld fowk, that's nae fun,
If they're withoot a car.
And one by one, awa they'll go
Nae mair about our land
At last, we'll see their passing, lo,
- Snuffed out by human hand.
Nah!
Activity is what's required
By mair than jist a few
But nae the prospect, here desired,
Tae wreck the bonny view.
The road ye tak', should gaur ye think,
The implications, clear,
An' in yer conscience, it shall sink,
- So mak' the richt choice here.
Noo, Time has come, tae dwell upon
Baith "Benefit" an' "Cost"; for
Some late 'twill be, ere come the dawn
When aa' things rare are lost.
Stevie Wright. 22. March, 2003
The Campaign against Windfarms