Horses: we found them as they saw us
dropping down from the chalk hill
through beech and dogwood and over the stile
into their paddock. Our first day out.
The silver-grey leading the chestnuts,
necks bobbing in the unhurried horse-stroll;
the enquiry by nose-velvet and snuffling
over clothes, pockets and uncurled hands.
The long careless mane-flick,
the startle and snorting
as our hands fluttered and reached out –
just to touch just to stroke –
then stilled as we stilled
and stood in the opening valley,
minds dripping into the earth;
eye to eye, breathing.
Moments soften and warm
as, like some awkward lad,
I’m shoved into the arms
of a body that’s felt but unknown;
overwhelmingly, brazenly, here.
Its murmuring spring –
of sweet rain and wild fruit,
of branches bare and poising to leaf –
yet comes at your certainty
wild-eyed and unfenced ...
And your winter’s torn off
by sudden impeccable teeth.
So you enter a seasonless morning
when the greens flow like blood.
Now it’s too late to turn back;
your skin is bare, always. Exposed.