Figure

HorseHorseHorse
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.
&nbs
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