‘There is a loose horse around. Look
when you come up to ride.
Some walkers say they found it, hooked
to the fence by its rug. It tried
to run. It has deep cuts.
We searched for an hour by the wood,
there were prints, Cyril says, in the mud.’
Next time she calls, there could
be nothing at all. She heard
a couple claimed last year
they glimpsed a horse up there,
but stole the farmer’s gear;
and Cyril is too old to see
hoofprints in mud, of course.
‘I’ll see you at four, then,’ I say.
I almost run into the horse.