The harvest fields are
nothing more than empty sweeps of
stubble and sweet desolation
to trouble the mind of a smooth cheeked boy.
Tall trees standing to attention as we pass,
and we can go no faster than this,
the hammer of horseshoes beating out the ground,
the wind a torrent in our hair.
We are lightning, two movements
four heartbeats,
splitting the earth in two
with the thunder of our passage,
and we can go no further than this.
The sound of hoof beats echoes
in empty stables now.
This is but a stolen moment
and we can only hope
that when the past returns to claim it,
that it will leave some other part of itself behind.
In the wreckage of this recollection,
the years stolen from my lips,
I am left to wander
through jumble sales and market stalls, piled high
with other forgotten scraps of history.