The sawmill light and

Moon and stars

Shone in a hermit

bucket

​

The night is hungry

and growing

​

In a dream, I rode a horse

​

Bells began to ring

​

A coach approached

in a cloud of dust

​

The long journey had

lathered us both

​

I placed my hand on my

horse's back

​

I carved letters in

my copy book

​

I wanted to be a soldier,

I explained, and read aloud

from blots of ink

​

Instead I am a strange rider

and your dull clopping is the

only sound we make

​

We are rowing upriver

in icy water

but beneath your blanket

I explained to the horse

is a smear of light

that is safe from King

Church, gunpowder

and work

​

​