my mark is made upon your noble neck

muscles are locked, claws sing through your flesh

I am the awful terror of morning.




your pretty teeth would rend me if they could.

my face is held in your maw. You are fire

and sharp, acrid grass, and all things that hurt.




I set my power against your stillness

I try to make your calming heft descend

you are baptising my mane in the stream




I want to drown your terrible beauty

as thrashing strikes now slow to an embrace

though blood runs quick, I do not feel afraid




your bite is dull as the world, cud-chewer

your hoof, it pounds my body like weather.

though I can’t breathe, I will not let you go.




the plain is still and quiet, our trauma

allowed time denied the dying hour

your body goes limp. you have let me go.


Published by

Laurence Thompson

Laurence Thompson is an English writer. He is almost certainly drunk.

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