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Author: 
Alison Brackenbury

The snow flies at me like a flower.

Have I risked snow on bikes before?

The snow flies at me like a flower.

 

Fine ice grains sting into my eyes

I wonder how the horses are

Fine ice grains sting into my eyes.

 

They spend two hours upon the hill,

Trudge ice, as horses rush away,

They spend two hours upon the hill

 

As whitened heels drum into dark,

As horses glimpse wolves, drifts, the end,

As whitened heels drum into dark.

 

How old these horses are. Like gods

Their massive necks sweep fragile doors,

How old these horses are. Like gods

 

The perfect crystals gleam, and blow,

The red lights dim. The drowned stars go:

The perfect crystals bloom and blow.

 

From The Rialto No 66 (Spring 2009)