Autumn’s Horses

I put my hand out, like a fire
accept


yours is gentle, with that
tremulous shake


of fallen leaves
turning slowly
to the bronze of earth


beyond the dunes
of your shoulder
saw in the unevening sky


the roundness of your disapproval


afternoons as lithe as cats
I imagine    
you always have that face


a prosopon, de rigueur
downturned at a scrap of yellow


there are foals in autumn’s colours


the leavened wind
has an insistent touch
as soft and irrevocable as Midas


steam plumes their nostrils and furs their backs 
in their gait, unconstrained machineries


take sudden flight


(as you turn, come back inside)


the evening spills her horses