I like your kind attention to this
horse with a white blaze that trots to meet
you. Its coat is stuck together with
mud. You pick sprigs of tree lucerne from
the yard of the white wooden church
on the corner of State Highway 6.
The leaves smell of summer, its flowers
are sweet white buds. From the dark curve of
his eyes he regards us. When I want
to feed him bit by bit, he uses
his deft tongue and blunt teeth to snatch up
the bunch from my hand. You know a damp
bank of herbs. In the spring you gather
cress, clover and tree lucerne, a huge
leafy bouquet to please the hungry
horse.