O lente, lente, currite noctis equi

every morning my horse turns to face condensation
sparkling white light of the east-facing windows

every afternoon my horse turns restlessly to jingles
swirling noisily on afternoon television adverts

every evening my horse turns to greet twilight’s
blue estuary with a look of wistful melancholy

my horse is wisely resigned to rituals of the lounge
where she rests on the coffee table. it is clear

she relishes white sunlight, snorts and twitches her ears
(notches where branches could have sprouted)

twists, grimacing at E colours, the artificial additives
of advertisements, graciously accepts blue ebb tides

but at night, her blood gallops with Marlowe's horses
and a woman recites, O lente, lente, currite noctis equi