They are flesh on the bones
of the wind, going full gallop,
the loan of freedom.
But the company of broken
horses is a quiet blessing.
Just to walk in the paddock;
to stand by their stall.
Left to their own devices
they graze or doze, hock to fetlock
crooked at ease, or — head to tail —
nibble withers, hips and flanks.
They fit themselves flat
to the ground. They roll.
But the mere sound or smell
of us — and they’re all neighs
and nickerings, their snorts
the splinters of the waves.
And growing out of morning
mists the ghosts of night
form silhouettes along the ridge,
a dun, two chestnuts,
and a bay. A shy colt stares
and shivers — a trembling like
fine feathers in a sudden breeze
around the hooves of heavy
horses. And the dam,
with foal to foot, steadies herself
her ears antennae of attention.
Put your hand towards her head-
collar, whispering your Ohs and Whoa,
Oh the boy and Oh the girl,
close your eyes and lean
your head towards
her quiet head, the way
the old grey mare,
hearing that her hero
joined the sleep
of death, spread her mane
across his breast and began to wail and weep.