GRAZING HORSE CONFESSIONAL

What I meant when I said clemency was that untold moment

when the tawny horse loped across the pasture to sniffle

at my fascination. I never thought I’d be so wistful

for the near-expired past this fast. The sleekest contact:

stroking the ice-cone muzzle, shammy cloth nostrils.

I speak less of what I could be, more of what I’d once been,

how I’d lived milksoppy, strained in a deliberately confined

way, gotten sore and tired, blinkered and saddled

with unshakeable qualms. Flies sparkled in the mane.

I couldn’t even make a mess in a coherent way; couldn’t tell

dandelions from desiccated teasel in the cidery light,

but to hear that baritone crunch as it gnashed at the grass

was enough for a brief détente. Observing the moment

– such an extravagance. I adjusted too quickly to the dark.

When I said nature, what I meant was some fragile mammals.

Samuel Prince's debut collection, Ulterior Atmospheres, was published in 2020 by Live Canon. His work has recently appeared in Acumen, The Broken Spine, Pedestal and Spelt. He lives in Norfolk (UK). More information can be found at www.samuelprince.co.uk.