Why is it
that when walking over the Downs
on a bright winter’s morning
and you see horses cantering in a fluid line across the far horizon,
the jockeys look so tiny
you feel you could stretch out your hand,
pick them up one by one
and place them gently upon the bare branches
of that silhouetted oak?
(Or, if it weren’t so dangerous, dot them along the power
And yet only an hour or so later
when they dismount and lead the horses past you
on their way to the stable yard,
they still look small?
Even smaller in some cases?