The smell of horse shit and hay,

Rotting on the road,

Allows its sweet decay,

To journey on the air;

And, with cloying fingers,

Raise sash windows by an inch.


A small face behind the glass,

Sees a flat-capped man,

A cart, and horsey pass;

A load of cheese and milk,

And some odd drapery,

And butter from the creamery.


Rations for the shops in town,

Travel down a hill,

Until, despite clip clops,

There’s no view from the sill.

Breathing on the glass pane,

In mist, he signs his name.



By Shay Ryan








One Response to Horsey

  1. Pingback: I Click I Click I Click in Coventry | Words in rhythm

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