danielallen

Horse The frost-pinched fields snort gouts of protest At this lost man's passing footsteps. Under the thin sky of winter A hard, numbing cold looks on. The Hare's furrow slopes to the sky, Quiet dusk rumours the ground. I grasp for a familiar sight to take me home; In place, a sound From each direction and none in twilight's thrombosis.     Horse has the land.     Neanderthal and ragged-edged in that recycled light     Horse is heavy: bones standing.     Horse in his own space of ground.     Horse in the landscape: A focus.     Horse for his own sake, round-bellied and warm. Again that sound - The age-old soft-lipped bu