The horse in question

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.