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
James Walton Poetry 