The
Uninvited
These wild horses
which stampede from time to time
through my house and garden
demand to be fed,
vie with the peacock,
the guinea fowl,
claim attention.
To enclose them
in promises of heather-covered moors
proves useless,
to plead work or declining years
only laughable.
They trample on skeletons
not understanding bones,
they know nothing of reality,
nothing of evil.
Uncanny, sensual
they toss their manes,
enticing what is born of the spirit
to rise up and worship an alien god.
Anne Beresford