The Horse of England

flutesong's supple canto could respell
what fading immemorial fell
among the harbor's jagged lines
behind the coat rack of the times
between the daily sots and brews
below the trembling quips and clues
the motion gallops, flows and moans
o'er mirrored eyes and dullard bones
the lake teased up and streets made slick
i paced at home and quivered, sick
the name a copy like yours, like hers
the simple contours, rocks, and furs
were gathered in this flutesong's roil
twas not a warble but a boil
a high-pitched finger tapped the hole
the microlabyrinthine print of old
the face hung plain upon the shelf
where madmen's bliss ignored all pelf
and shuttered towns snoozed in half-light
covered pots and hushed the sight
the dry sheets sigh as legs go near
and all thoughts fade as some veneer
of warbly flutesong's spheery dance
where particles of miracles veer and glance
and fondness' music seeps thro' skin
the murky tent-house, lissome din
this holy ear, the brooding owl
now curled in and begun to prowl
and should it stop, the sound it makes
ecstatic moments would create
for just the sound now broke would ring
and in the next begin to sing
carelessly by chance it spread
from heart to hand to fields of dead
from dread isles lost where eyes go blank
the chains are wrested from the bank
releasing feverish and clarion call
that abiding hope gets sung by all
and though its sounds were not well made
already had its mischief bade
good health and fortune to ye beings!
and to your hearts and to your dreams!