written by: Vickie Johnstone
She sees horses in the streets,
tearing down the tarmac,
silvery manes of flowing water
twisting in the wind’s hands.
Pale white streaks of ghosts
leaving translucent trails of light,
black eyes glistening, nostrils
flared, silent in their insistency.
They say the fields are full of
bodies, buried during the war,
but all she can see are the horses,
hooves pounding the ground.
Beautiful wild beasts racing
without a care in the world,
unreflected in windows.
How they run.
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