Let their hooves print the next bit of the story:
Release them, roughmaned
From the dark stable where
They rolled their dark eyes, shifted and stamped —
Let them out, and follow the sound, a regular clattering
On the cobbles of the yard, a pouring round the corner
Into the big field, a booming canter.
Now see where they rampage,
And whether they are suddenly halted
At the check of the line westward
Where the train passes at dawn —
If they stare at land that looks white in patches
As if it were frayed to bone (the growing light
Will detail as a thickening of small white flowers),
Can this be the end of their flight?
The wind combs their long tails, their stalls are empty.