The horse in question
Actually
the horse didn’t question anything.
Not the hills or the mud or the jittering man
in the saddle.
It kept pace like a metronome,
nostrils grazing the marsh marigolds,
dry sticks tickling the pallet part.
It didn’t mind the hillocks
or the squelching
or the arguing stream.
The man was breathing in newsprint;
Blair’s resignation, Browne’s alarming rising
customer care line numbers from milk cartons,
all line-dancing on synapse centres.
The horse felt the man’s knee pulse,
his serotonin levels increasing
and at the end of the stream
made a concerted effort to start a two legged rising.
