Not So Stable

A poem


Sometimes when she stirs, he pauses

      (forgets what he is doing)

her unsaddled back un-brushed

his spurs of impatience upsetting her

how the evening sky darkens

a soft blue bleeding into mystic orange,

flaring red into starlit black cloak.


She knows her Master isn’t well

the way his knees rattle

how he buckles with pain

cancelling evening rides

(no more wild white daisies

no romp in Queen Anne’s lace

just quiet staring at uneaten food)

his jockey sweat, a salt taste mingling

with sweet smell of hay

still yearning, breathing

his heart frail like thin filament

a single light bulb flickering,

the shadow of her stirrup

a haunting noose image

swaying from barn rafters.