Draught Horse

The smoking thrown-away butt
stared up from the flagstone;

The tip of a fresh smoke
arc-winked in his pursed-grin mouth.

He cough-clucked the muscular
draught horse into the yard.
The sharp stings of suspended smoke
scraped his hooded eyes.

Then feathered fetlocks clouted
long strides across the furrowed meadow,

As though pursued by slavering
snarling Ardennes wolves.

Who tasted oozing raw-blood
meat on their wild-bud tongues.

His breathless passion beyond
the load limits of words,

He rode the rhythm
of the roan horse’s rise and fall.

In crude consonants
I cocooned the vowels of my awe.