As lines are steered through language,
and feet tread rooms
though we cannot hear their bitter patter,
and we follow the tracks of tyres
through mist-thrown fields
to the rushes at the water’s edge
which won’t, to human eyes,
separate themselves from their reflections,
cross-hatching like the shades
that muster a single hue,
somebody is surely steering you,
riderless thoroughbred pinned
to open air above the wall,
on out into the lake’s electric blue.