Talk to me of horses
the young man says
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.
Talk to me of horses:
the world is losing its grip
and I care not about
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional –
help me understand.
So, I come daily to his bedside
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.
We discuss horses –
the power of their bodies
their beauty and grace
their role throughout history –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then…
I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable,
between sleep and awake, figures
grey and frightening hover over
my bed like body snatchers….
A chill runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin
and I shudder despite myself
scramble to maintain calm
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light
clouding his vision.
I missed his passing the next day
arriving to find his mother waiting
“He left you a message,” her eyes
quizzical, “says that you were right
about the visions; there was nothing to fear”
I smile through the grief –
ever the teacher that one
now dead at twenty-one
“Oh, and one more thing”, she adds “
“Could you talk to me of horses?”
(Talk to Me of Horses first appeared her in April 2018. This version has been edited slightly. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 