the mountains grew
his horse’s head hung low
the land was filled with little except
the loom of dusk
his gazing crossed those hills
opened pastures
flowing across red soil
there field-mice would be busy
bees opulent and accompanying
the music of a wind
full of pollen and skylarks
he looked back at the debris
he called time
made camp
in a dried-up stream
Read Place’s poem, stumbled across it, and it gave me a ten-second breather; that is saying a lot in today’s world …
Many thanks, John. Poems have been slow in coming lately, and your comment will surely spur me on.
milner
Excellent, Milner. The nature of the beast. A good poem reverberates…
‘reverberates; Yes, John, well put. That it also can be taken scatologically is a plus, as poetry without humour is unnatural.
Cheers
milner
Nature and horses…
Got my name all over it, tag it with a word spinner, I’m in love.