Hearing of horses speaking Irish on the island
he took a boat out there, paid an islander
daft money to lead him to the westernmost field
where a shy pair of russet ponies stood head-
to head on a hilly mound that jutted out over
the leaping froth of the Atlantic. He pretended
not to notice them, said goodbye to his guide
in Irish picked up from books in southern Spain –
his lifetime’s hobby – then sat on his hunkers,
listening hard, but either the horses were quiet
or he needed to get closer. He waited until a
gang of screaking gulls got the horses neighing,
then over he went, soothing them with murmurs,
stroking them, until one said in fluent Irish
to the other ‘This hairy fellow could be OK,
but we can’t trust him, can’t trust any of them.
Two legs? I mean, imagine yourself like that.’
The other whinnied, and hoofed the ground,
then began to sing a song, a wrenching lament
for a red-haired woman, that intensified
when the second horse joined in, so the man
slipped away, head down, back to the harbour.
MATTHEW SWEENEY