Afterwards that good grey mare
galloped off into the deepening
furze of ramsons and scabious,
of spiders stumbling on the dusklight –
summer dowsed under her eye.
Her arrow-straight wake leaned from
the dwindling line of the hearse
as the tractor towed it back.
I stood empty-handed, her tack
slung over the gate below my elbows,
pockets full of sweet rolled oats.
Later when she came [...]
PerPoBlo
A Personal Poetry Blog in Argyll
Good Grey Mare
An Alien
You look at me as if
I am an Alien and
a broken one at that –
rubbed of its green,
no longer scaley,
compass pocked –
as unwelcome as a cat.
Lined Paper
The silence of the lined paper
as it is not written upon
is unnerving.
Ink is applied – the nib dances –
the paper sighs, satiated
with meaning.