Coming home fast

The sun is sinking with the blood.
The rich green of December's grass
Glints blindly as the ice winds pass.
Through puddles, carved by tractor tyres,
The pony and I slip and glare
Through pack-ice, like two polar bears.

Alison Brackenbury

If you've any comment on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.