The Flight of Horses

Over the stalk-crashing marshes, From red timber and slim pine, Herds of the wild black horses

Flash into open sunshine

Breasting wet light; where flighty Black mares from a savage breed, Dash to the whinnying canter— Their wild manes leashed with speed!

Where the wide Curragh lifts no clinging For the wind over grassy miles,

Low paddocks choke with the forage

Of foals from uncropped isles—

Foals tethered by some lean dealers Grown swift on milk of the mare— Fillies and colts from those horses

Of larch hills, curbed to the fair.

For all the rare stallions harnessed,

Who knows but the last flaming shoe On the anvil, chills into silence?

While over our hills the few

Remaining horses lose shelter—

Tails lashing bare haunches and backs— As the sun strikes in golden laughter Boughs toppling over the axe.

These timbers lie clear for the iron That runs from this stony place; While over moon-drenching orchards, Just shadowy horses chase

From dreams once herded in fir-lands And summers only known

Through shiny black seams of mining Burning soft earth to the stone.