The pale horse stands.
Rough tussocked meadowlands, below the bridge,
Grow around him, slow,
As the river gently wends,
Bending broadly toward it's own ends,
In some far off calm,
He doesn't give a damn to know.
Something turns his maned head tailward.
Two figures on the bridge have slowed,
Then posed, in an elbowed pause.
He stands motionless, gazing, ear focused for the cause.
"That's bad grazing. Wet ground, the grass damper.
Hope he's loved, and someone
Moves him on, to better pasture."
Moments of fantastic colour sail past.
The Sun selects carefully each patch of meadow grass
To brilliantly, intensely glow in flower speckled green,
Or one wind waved willow to suddenly gleam,
Silver against the angry dark of water laden sky.
Surely it was Peter de Wint washed in these trees,
Each so perfectly, artistically, at ease
Leaning in attendance over the unseen glint
Where the river goes, one after the other.
He lowers his mane, to nose, and think it over.