The Thinking Poet


Horses In a Frosted Field

Sun-silhouetted, their shadows thrown towards me:

Two horses in a frosted field

Muzzles deep in silvered grass

Bowed in dumb submission, survival their goad.


But I, a different breed,

An animal of sorts, and pampered,

The species that reports these things,

Marvel at the sun-birth over Cockshoot Wood,

And how, though they've moved away heads down, I stay;

Staring at the groping light through mist

And at bare beseeching limbs of trees trying to grasp the sun.


The sun,

Its shortened solstice-journey just begun,

But blazing gloriously.