Unknown titles

People, things,
trees, bushes, tentements,
catchments,
Those misshapen mountain
Matted by verdure,
incomplete masterpieces of God.
They lay arrayed on the arid canvas.
The canvas, still present,
waiting for redemption,
in near future
from past's abandonment.

The canvas is strewn
with images
It tests my vision's expanse
Too much to behold,
as I rattle by
Click, click, click, click,
A rhythm beneath my foot
Or wait, listen tactfully
Is it the symphony
purely synthetic,
borne out of iron, diesel and slightly poetic?

Now, descending from heart of this verse,
you have reached its knee
on which it stands, staidly.
What is that tapering serpent in the sky?
Maybe, the iron monk
is breathing out.
The monk pierces the air,
slithers over water, slowly
on its iron mates.

The time, at which its written
is three ceturies
past industrial revolution.
Why now? It's highly unsuitable.
Maybe, I am pastoral
Now that idylls have become soul less
Synthesizers have replaced clarinets
Somethings always return, neverthless.