Sir gromore somyr joure
That was a happy station, full of sunshine and cabbage.
You could sit among the thinkers for hours,
thinking anything you wanted. You could think
about your kingdom and feel a small stab of remorse,
or you could cultivate an interest in the funnel-shaped
webs leading down through the grasswort
towards what toothed and cruel centre lay waiting.
Knees were for kneeling. Lashes were for looking
at the sun. The river was slow and it hurried.
Trains slowed down but did not stop.
Wherefore was the question on everyone’s lips
though none spoke it, nor plucked it away
but let it hang there like an overripe pear
left out for the gleaners to dispute in the fall.
Every horse had three different names, each one
more purple than the last. Sir Gromore Somyr Joure
took the day every day until the very day
he retired. Did I love that dark horse?
I did not. His breath stank of cabbage.
He bit the hands that fed him. He would stand
in bad weather and refuse the boxwood gate.
But I was there in the fray and the fanfare,
I was there in the dooryard, and I was there
when they laid him down cold to the earth.