D. H. Lawrence describes a morning in a new southwest London suburb, where rows of red and pink houses have just gone up. At first the comparison to plants sounds almost lively, but the growth is rigid: level rows, square shadows, one side flatly taking the sun while the other hides the pavement. The people moving along the street are reduced to “hastening creatures” and ants that cannot relent and have nothing to say, which makes the place feel drained of human warmth and conversation. Even the street-lamps look like bare, desolate twigs, as if some blight has stripped the life from the land. The speaker’s tone is detached and quietly appalled. The mood is one of monotony, emptiness, and unease—suburban order without real vitality.
Flat Suburbs, S.W., in the Morning — Summary
The new red houses spring like plants In level rows Of reddish herbage that bristles and slants Its square shadows.
The pink young houses show one side bright Flatly assuming the sun, And one side shadow, half in sight, Half-hiding the pavement-run;
Where hastening creatures pass intent On their level way, Threading like ants that can never relent And have nothing to say.
Bare stems of street-lamps stiffly stand At random, desolate twigs, To testify to a blight on the land That has stripped their sprigs.