My Horse is a Poet
Day after day, under the elms,
she goes about her slow business.
Grey hide flecked with flies,
wading in timothy and rye,
she could be a cow, but for her mane;
the sly wholeness of her hooves.
Then the sudden rising of a bird,
the fall of a leaf, some small thing,
wakes the wildness in her.
Swinging her hips, head high,
she beats the boundaries of
her closed world, telling
in scarred turf and clouded breath
of love and fear and hunger
and the need always to move on.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah Willans would be
pleased to hear from you.