for: Katie, Jeanie, Mara, Jenny, The Bay, The Roan, Ali, Lance, The Mare, Phyllis, all my own true heart

Crisp snow. village sleeps.
Almost daylight from the moon.
Thin smoke rises, unseen fires.
Some dog hears the barn door slide.

Horses snort, nicker.
In a soft watt glow,
Seek out my bridle, saddle,
That old Indian blanket from Mexico.

Shuddering saw dust she greets me
As if trying to erase that white blaze star n snip
From her otherwise pure liver-chestnut body against me.
As usual I give in, step back.
As usual take a moment, rub her head, her ears,
Lean my face against her,
Breathe in deep that sweet smothery scent…

How many times have I groomed this horse?
Untangled mane and tail, picked feet, mixed feed,
Had her shod, filed her teeth,
Spent hours just watching her in the field,
And like I am right now, unable to sleep,
All these thoughtless motions of tacking up.

I warm the bit with my own breath
So, the frozen metal won’t burn her mouth.
And this great creature of my heart,
Slightly bends so her bridle can be slipped on.

Down the aisle my boot heels
No match for her borium studded shoes.
Last of the sleepy horses stir.
Each step increases their curiosity.
Whinny, snorts, some strike their stalls, some stomp the floor
And we both know that black gelding’s bass drum kick.
Each sound charges the air

As if you were watching, you’d see with every step
Our connection wove the mare and I,
Until muffled by snow in false dawn and moonlight,
Though every part is saying “go”
She stands, for me.

Up into that healing sensation of being whole again I swing.
Savour the moment before she, as if in imitation of her birth,
Boldly arcs liquidly into motion.

We make for the west ridge,
Where for the past week, waking from a sound sleep,
I’ve seen from my window a lone wolf.
Sometimes just a glimpse. Sometimes lingering,

Head high as if to test the air,
As if at any moment stillness shatters…
But there’s never been a sound
Only a drooping dark shape turning away.
]And at the top, footprints?  Signs? The creature, real or dream ?

Through winter swells we crest the ridge
Pause slightly
Before down onto the valley floor,
Share the last two good apples of the year,]
Roll the first cigarette of the day,
Smoke doubled by cold drifts
Dancing like spirits slowly shrinking from the sun
To where just before the rising birch tree line
The Frozen river spreads its dare.

PD Lyons was born and raised in the USA Since 1998 has resided in Ireland. Has worked as dishwasher, floor washer, textile mill labourer, construction worker, pesticide sprayer, fire safety inspector, toy shop manager, substance abuse councillor, women’s shoe shop manager etc currently cutting grass in a small medieval village in County, Westmeath Ireland. Pdlyons’s Explorations