The old white horse
ambles away into a whipped-up
froth of buttercups,
his placid feet half-hidden by the
June-grass winds;
turning, his tail flows down,
shiny as silk,
over his quarters smooth and round
as pearled shells...
The simile unbidden shakes my
mind;
it’s so exact - what else shows
his behind?
Delicious and absurd, I see it
hang
against the light of truth: a
cream meringue...
(June,
1988)
