in his head
1
The fields white with rime. A rich smell of autumn.
Between yard and horizon, his eye places
what he’s the last to see: side-spring of hare
translated into pawprints, the dead patch where
nothing would grow; the hunting track
old as the century from barn to waterside;
the young owls that hide in the orchard. The great
outdoors he ploughed all his life with the horses. Like the back
of his hand. Morning. He laughs as he steps inside.
2
Lost in the housing estate that stands there now
he searches for language. Oh Lord, how
can he tell the horses that this dream town
will not let him pass. He needs a piss
by the willow which knows him. But it is gone.
They find him in their garden, the kind
women who live there now. And bring him home, his old
eyes two years young. ‘He was by our hedge, you understand.’
Emptiness descends like manna onto his mind.
He hears the words prophesied to him as a child:
‘I shall lead thee back to the promised land.’