They don’t know about horses

those who talk of standing sleep
how they curl like cats
snuffle ground as wingless dragons

or idle attent in the full sun

because there are not enough days
to feel earth undulate in the tease of burlap

pose rump into the weather

always alert for the summons
the startled flap of plovers
as unshod hooves cherish gallop

then call across fences

their voices tuned for a herd
whickering out the lost posse

rubbing morse on iron gates

the criss cross code of a sudden lick
a scrape of brisket colour
to mark the strain in barbed wire

and always their eyes of finest glaze
seeking truth in the most human places

Published in Live Encounters Poetry and Writing December 2019 editor Mark Ulyseas

Rescue mare and foal, at the old place

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