HORSES IN THE CITY
Horses in the city,
Blissed and hooves coloured red,
bowing in the winds brought down in the last rain,
bent to the raking patter of a heart renewed.
A good time, for a time,
I left you sleeping
galvanised by a spur of daffodil on her lapel,
brother poets gathered in the ragoon trenches of a forest row.
Lay in a field,
the grasses little tethers
hands grown pink imprinting on the skin and all of our other childlike seams.
Sharp ciders of the Shepherds set-a-blaze like ancient pierheads and portobellos,
islands within the sound of a crane calling,
washing,
the hollows of a hallow in the cool water of a mountain stream,
here we gather,
at the laughing gallows,
watching the horses run through the city.
Horses in the city,
Blissed and hooves coloured red,
bowing in the winds brought down in the last rain,
bent to the raking patter of a heart renewed.
A good time, for a time,
I left you sleeping
galvanised by a spur of daffodil on her lapel,
brother poets gathered in the ragoon trenches of a forest row.
Lay in a field,
the grasses little tethers
hands grown pink imprinting on the skin and all of our other childlike seams.
Sharp ciders of the Shepherds set-a-blaze like ancient pierheads and portobellos,
islands within the sound of a crane calling,
washing,
the hollows of a hallow in the cool water of a mountain stream,
here we gather,
at the laughing gallows,
watching the horses run through the city.