What are you thinking of
as I pass my fingers
through your mane’s coarse wool?
I take your cheek into my palm,
you root my coat for food,
shiver a little. It is cold here,
in the bare fields, under blank cloud.
You wander between the stark wire
bending to eat, running now
and then. I would do the same
removed from home and company,
taking the warmth of a stranger’s hands
light and hesitant, like the rain.
Cliff Ashcroft
