The Hunt

What have I done with my new reins?
They were tied in a bag in the hall.
I spent hours scanning the catalogues, measured
As the pony dipped her head to her feet.
They were coiled, like a supple leather snake.
Now they have gone.

What have you lost?
The curtain hooks, for the flowered pair
You found in her wardrobe, meant to put up?
Now the glass shines dark.

Bills, rings or keys; no, it is not
the mind’s sad twitch, a trick of life
too newly busy. This is old
and deep as pain,
the love, the child, forgotten light
we cannot name.

Alison Brackenbury

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