The White Horse

The London Magazine - - CONTENTS - Paula Bo­hince

for Ed­ward Thomas

Be­holden to the surf and spray of cow pars­ley,

he is lonely, dis­turbed as this­tle en­listed to the pe­ony,

coat redo­lent of dirt, pipe smoke, the con­tem­pla­tive face

down­cast, his life a speck, in the hawk’s opin­ion,

who glides in for in­spec­tion, to rest from her reap­ing

in the crux of a yew. Now two, the friend has ar­rived, the leaf-like

fore­lock lift­ing as they nuz­zle, graze, speak in horse-lan­guage,

stride over earth, which is a grave, but not for them, not to­day.

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