Matilda
Early morning. She bathes in
the cool shade of her stable,
regards me with faint curiosity.
I call to her
in a voice I think she will understand,
then try another. She is happy
where she is, she doesn't come to me
like the ponies who came to James Wright
in 'The Blessing', I can't skim her ears
with my fingertips, see if they are
delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
She turns her long nose away, maybe
to dream of the neat thuds she leaves
in the grass as she gallops,
the fizz of sugar-lumps on her tongue.
Copyright © 2006 Fiona Robyn
