Horsemen

No more crossing sand and tundra bareback,
no more hooded riders cloaked in black,

only these: the tick of huge trains as
they cool beneath a carapace of glass,

the clock in a briefcase left by the door
of a crowded bank-turned-tapas bar,

the cough, the kiss, the rumour,
the broken swan on a seashore.

Pity the horses: trained, transported
then stood down. Pity the quartet

of riders, unsaddled and suited,
lost in the city discreet and spread-sheeted.

Hoods and cowls now mothballed
or cut up to polish cars, no cold

coming at night, no knocks on doors
of far-flung farmhouses,

no harvesting the streets for souls
and no more travellers' tales

of wayside shrines, motels, no silken
girls, no sherbet, no fine wines.

Horses grazing distant flood plains
pause to watch the fires then dip again.

Time To Leave the Safe House

Time to leave the lemon trees,
gardens flaked with roses.

Time to slam the bolts back,
break the paint seal on sash frames.

Time to smash the searchlights,
cut the wires on auto-gates.

Time to let the dogs loose,
to form packs in the forests.

Time to roam the streets,
disarmed and sated, open-hearted.

Time to see darkness as nothing
but absence of light, danger

as nothing but safety withdrawn,
absence as nothing at all.