The Pacific Northwest Forum
Volume 5, Number 1, Page 31
Bob Wilson is a graduate teaching assistant in the English Department of Eastern Washington University. He is working on a Masters Degree in Creative Writing. The poem is in Anglo-Saxon measure.
Splashes of silver Broke their soft slumber,
Rain on the scab-rock Rattled, rebounded;
Pounding the pasture With peals of proud thunder,
Defeating the drouth season Filling deep ditches
With swift-running water Wild and willful.
The horses were huddled Their hides wet and heavey;
They crouched in a corner White-eyed at the crashing,
Fearing the flashes Of close flying flames there.
Neighing and nervous They bolt at near misses,
Exploding stone startles them Spooking, stampeding;
In terror they tear Into twisted bared wire,
Savagely slashing They plunge through the strands.
Possessed by their panic Hearts puming and pounding,
Daring all danger They drive towards he darkness;
Flanks flayed by iron Flesh hangs on the fence line,
Shock-filled and screaming They scramble through sage brush
Blind in their blood-craze Unknowing they blunder
Straight down the slope To the cliffs of the shore;
Heaving, hard running The whole herd of horses
Are dashed to their deaths On the rain-darkened rock.