Tuesday, 24 March 2009

White horse poem

The train is taking the curve,
metal wheels sharpening metal rails
and a speed-camera flash. It's dusk.

It hoots, it's mournful, and then it is
a grinding noise in the distance. Then gone.
The stars come out again. A frog moves.

The white horse is poured moonlight;
Assembled curves like an Arab alphabet
Cantering fluidly through its dark green medium.

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