Approximate Horses
He told himself of the road home he always liked to walk. How walking along it at night he would hear owls across the fields, or the scream of a rabbit taken by surprise in the dark, but could not remember details of houses he had passed for years. He might have spoken of a past love, how her held warmth was so distinct from the heat of the day, but he struggled to recall the colour of her lovely eyes He liked to talk of the field he loved, but even as he spoke of them, his mind was inventing the colours, and swishing tails of the approximate horses it contained, as if his life had only been a dream that was always fading from his mind. First published in South poetry magazine Published in collection: Telling The Time |