Sunday, 14 February 2016

Frightened Horse

I watch you strumming, long fingers, white hands,
and I hear the hoofbeats of a frightened horse.
In Paris, you held my hand tight
as we walked back through silent streets.
Now you're too old for hand holding.
I ask you if you hear the frightened horse.
"What horse?" you say.
"I'm not singing about a horse."


Sent from my iPhone

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