Seven horses climbed out of the Wannsee
and galloped, dripping, to Kleist’s grave.
They neighed and bent their forelegs –
one rapped the stone gently with a hoof.
another came forward to lick the name.
Then, one by one, they felt a weight
drop on their backs, and a jab in the side
poke them into a joyful canter along
the big lake’s bank. Such whinnying
had not been heard for centuries, thought
a man walking three barking terriers.
When each horse returned another left
till all seven had felt the rider’s weight
then they stood in a ring around the grave
to neigh a soft, high-pitched chorus
before pulling off in strict formation
to trot in a row, heads high, back to where
they’d left the water, wade in again,
watched by a group of shrieking kids, then
swim in an arc towards the farther shore.