Poetry by John Grey

HORSES IN A FIELD

It's December and I stop the car

a mile or so before the house.

A field of horses nuzzle grass.

They lift their heads and breath freezes

at the tip of each nostril.

Those chilled white clouds

are shaped like other horses,

ancestral horses, floating there.

I watch the sun melt these ghosts

from the outside in,

until nothing's left

but the next breath

and the next and the next.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Chronogram and Clade Song.