Cold horses, in the field, forlorn,
are statues, stark, in pale half light.
Tethered beside bucket and hay,
they have endured a winter’s night
and must now face an icy day.
A half-moon lingers. This grey dawn,
diamond dew sparkles on their
mighty shoulders. They exist free
of man’s presentiment of death:
theirs is a careless reverie.
Life challenges: they acquiesce.
Rain, wind, ice, sun: they do not care.
Their gentle eyes meet my concern,
by the stone wall that separates
man from beast. I come with apple,
stand, wait. What differentiates
beast in field from man in chapel?
What do they know, that I must learn?
Richard Fleming
This poem first appeared in The Man Who Landed, as part of A GUERNSEY DOUBLE, a joint collection with poet, Peter Kenny.
For further details and availability of this book please go to http://redhandwriter.blogspot.com
