We Were The Horses

Horses at a water trough
Drinking sky

 

We were the horses.

You could go to town on the metaphoric qualities of that image,

a thirst for something unattainable etc

the spiritual reflected in the commonplace.

But unpacking always took the fun out of travel.

 

There it is again— transcendence in the every day.

Clouds in a windscreen.

Just like that man I saw.

The one I call the Lunch-Hour-Flagellant,

bustling along by the wall,

whipping himself over alternate shoulders with his striped tie.

Ridding himself of a painful memory.

A woman lost among wet leaves in the dawn.

One pale face stuck to the bark.

I can say it clearly now that she can no longer hear.

She can send me an empty text,

a blank message that says next to nothing is something better than the sugar-free years.

 

We were the horses!

Drinking and dreaming.

Given up on pale ales and porter,

preferring sky-juice.

Our shanks wet with mud and cappuccino froth.

Currycombing in the hothouse.

Ken Russell could film it if he were still alive.

We got the gallops in the winter garden,

wind in our nostrils while the drinkers gurned with painted on clown faces.

Their sadness pure panto.

They couldn’t outrun us in their mobility scooters.

They couldn’t out swim us in our supercharged pedalo.

A giant plastic swan, our Viking figurehead,

surprising picnickers among the willows

 

My hand on your warm flank,

steam from your topknot, my gymkhana girl.

If we could outrun ourselves

we might find pasture among the lunchtime offers.

 

I select a tie. A tropical sunset with a daring green background.

I hug the wall where the bluebottles tingle in the sun.

I whip alternate shoulders, heaving up great sighs.

I follow the man, the procession.

We move through the city in our lunch hour.

Hear our cries: we are lowly, robbed of insight, easily embarrassed.

We are not worthy of the gifts bestowed upon us