• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 11
Image by

Towards Dusk

Give me your hand you said and took it anyway and towards the field we walked and the silence between us was not without resentment.
In the air hung the argument, spiked words still present,
Tasting like rain, sharp and metallic, like the rust on the bike in your grandfather’s shed,
bitter to the tongue.
The fields in front were wet
And the mud clung in sodden clods to our boots
And in the distance the horse, a shot of chestnut, turned and began moving its grace towards us, ambling but with certainty,
so that at the gate
we stood, still hand in hand,
and reached beyond ourselves to the trembling softness of what was breathing,
what was willing itself to be touched.