he feeds red apples to his horses
and tells them the secrets
of his war-honoured young.
They take gouts of sweet white,
coring the soft spheres in moments
listening only for low
continual sound.
“George was big on his watches
he’d prize them open; remove their bright insides
but he lacked the drilling to make them work again.
We were left with only bits and pieces.”
“Rob, he had a hand and eye for paint.
portraits of his likeness, mine too
but not content, he defaced them at the end.
his blank canvas lines our walls — collecting dust.”
He does not know but he does
that while they may have believed
he loved more
his horses,
it is his boys' ghosts he treads
over the fields
