The Horse #2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
each day I pass him; he just standing there neither waiting for food or drink.. what's he waiting for or is just hanging out lest he miss anything going in the world outside his hilly field by the lake-shore..
Or is he hanging out in another dimension on the rim of the universe ; a squashed hologram - they tell us .. holding back the memory and knowledge which is indestructible , according to quantum physics.

Submitted: January 17, 2011

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Submitted: January 17, 2011



Day after day I see his long ponderous mane
Hanging like great melancholy
Over  that five bar gate .
Whitened  into the grey  of resignation
The doleful neck hangs  abject and submissively
In the incessant drizzle
Of rain and beating wind;
Staring out onto the street
To see the cars flash by

And I wonder at  the turmoil in that face
Of docile  , exhausted  melancholy ;
What’s on his  undimmed mind
One  wretched  ,hopeless,
Disappointing day , one upon another.?

Does he heed with any expectation, the passing traffic?
Or  those  tourists  who stop up to take his picture ,
And throw a penny in the trough
To scrutinise  his coal black eyes
Which only blink  when the rain has beaten down ,his great lashes.

To see the monstrous beauty there uncoiled
I have to set aside my own coils
That entrap me ; thattether  and  spancel me to
My own form  ,my class ;my breed ; my conscience ;
My contaminated , indoctrinated view  of his equine world

Does he see the sky : clouds .the passing seasons ?
The moon crossing the  night sky,
The rise and fall on the lake shore ,
The upturned boats in winter
Like pupae of caterpillars
Metamorphose  to fishing boats ;
Gay and bright
Like butterflies nimble light
To  sally forth upon the lake
After the Winter has passed ,

Do the trough and rick of hay
Distract him , or punctuate his day

Does he recognise me from another ?
Why does he look with those huge black eyes
That seem to suck in all surrounding light
Into the great vault that holds his brain;
For his rumination ,
And his leisurely contemplation.?

Does he think  dark thoughts of  scorn
Of resentment ,
At how he endured abuse at
The heavy hand of a pitiless farmer

He shows no emotion
He doesn’t show his hand
And that’s what gets me all the time
He just stares out at the passing world
Over the five bar gate ,
And I wonder
What’s his game. ?

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