Horse. Chestnut

Close your eyes and run your fingers

through a bag of them.

Listen and feel

rumbling silk;

one living, moving muscle.

 

Stubbs made

Whistlejack

of conkers, surely:

 

across the barrel,

on the point of hip;

that vegetable gaskin,

silky fetlock, hock.

 

Conker-shine

on the shimmering

smoke of mane;

from the skirt of his tail

to the white fire at the dock.

 

He’s up, forelimbs raised to take a shock,

the swung sling of his mad blood steered by that rolling eye!