Horse

We are not yet dead – images incessantly yet are born:
Mohin’s horses graze in the wildernesses of autumn’s moonlight
Stone Age horses as if – still desirous of grass they graze
Upon the weird dynamo of this earth.
Odour of the stable floats in in a crowd of night breeze;
The shedding of sad hay sounds from the steel machine;
The teacup like a tawny kitten – in sleep – in the indistict grasp of a mangy dog –
Turning to ice rattles in yonder pice-restaurant;
The parrafin lantern is snuffed in the circular stable
Blown by Time’s repose –
Having touched the moonlight of these horses’ Neolithic Silence.