The Horse
Balkans, summer 1991
 This horse I see was once an urn filled with ashes.
Wherever it galloped, the fields clouded over with winter

As villagers awaited the return of the armoured hero.
Through the vines and past the cut sheaves it comes jingling.

On the lake small waves become still and the circling birds
Vanish from the sky. The horse stands exhausted now

Grazing its reflection on a sheet of museum glass
Which clouds with breath as people press near to see.

Outside the mountains echo but not with ancient bronze.
The mirror of the lake shimmers with the heat of armies.

Sicyon
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