Sandra Galton





There are no horses in the field opposite,
only a pale stubble cut to the quick.

No, there are no horses, but I can conjure them,
their autumn coats, the brisk shiver of sinewed necks
in the stippled mist that clings like breath.

I do not see them,
but I clasp them to my brain, those solid shapes,
flexing fetlocks, the switch switch of tails.

Yes, I think – such unbroken beauty must persist,
and I stretch out my hand, but they shift, whinnying,
stamp and scrape the ground, then whinny again.

I did not hear them,
they were in my core,  I sensed this enduring fear.
I know that I must drop my eyes,
snort softly, bring my head to rest along theirs

so that we might breathe, each to the other.



Sandra Galton is a musician living in London. She has been published in The Rialto, The Interpreter’s House and Under the Radar (forthcoming) among other magazines. Several of her poems have been commended or won prizes in competitions.

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