Vale of the white horse

The white horse

on the far

green hill

moves all day

to a rhythm

all her own,

following

clues in the

pasture and

the hill shape

and the changing

shadows from

the trees,

and some days,

for no reason

I know, he

doesn’t

appear at all,

and I hope

she is all right.

He has no

interest

in my rhythms.