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Good Grey Mare

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 furrow-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 she came back to me, her
damp hoofprints out of the river,
mane wild with rolling and stampering,
her pink tongue a slick benison
placing the day back into my hands.

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Posted 01 July 2009 † Poet § Per[sonal] § Po[etry] ‡ Comments (0) ° Tagged: ,