Whitehorse

Up the streams of grassland stones
Beyond the trails of leaves and cones,
She smells the daisies, noses past,
Wonders, perhaps, if they will last.
Or does she pray over poisoned weather,
How nothing lives then dies together?

The painter is patient among the flowers,
Leaving the scene to the evening hours,
Forgiving the sun for abandonment
And walking alone through moonlight lent.

The see-through drapes are shifting clouds,
Drifting high above the crowds.
Uncrumpled bill upon the table,
Traded gladly for something stable -
Something strong and soft, of course,
Like the face of a whitehorse.

Shyly grazing near the streams,
Almost motionless, she seems,
tasting of the rotting fruit,
Soft like her and without root.