Horses

Tired as post horses on the eve of a war,
we had bruised flanks too,
having torn through, angry villages,
conscious of doors locked against
imagined evil.

I swear I saw a blue-booted knight,
with a plectrum at his neck,
made from the tooth of a child
and heard in a declining scale,
his wicked songs.

You sang your song loud and high,
in a wriggled dance, half unwrapped
in 800 count sheets and we galloped on
clearing fences which from a distance looked
too high for human creatures.
 
Then a week or so ago, we finally came
in a concert of exhaustion, to this place,
a clearing, far from angry villagers 
but near enough to the knight
his songs, and the panting of tired horses.