Fourth September Selection 2012

Poseidon's Horses

At the end of summer

always the wind

watched by the horses

stoutly forward facing it

heads bowed against

the surf of green pastures

as clouds glide overhead.

And always the wind.

Storms blunder in

from the North Atlantic

day turns gunmetal gray

approaching walls of rain

on the road to Vík

all color is smothered

from the world.

Then come

the running cloud-breaks of sun

that stampede over the fields

where the horses are still waiting

and windows of light

race up basalt cliffs

illuminating the glacier fingers

that clutch this island.

Ahead

torrents of a river unravel

on a flood plane

lava sand

the thread of the road

leads to a causeway bridge.

Droves of horses gallop

out of the brightness on the bridge

mounted horsemen follow

the fences of the road

channeling

the currents of the herd

they spread around my car

blowing panting

not quite touching it.

Beyond the river

storm fronts trample the landscape

hoof beats of air

as waterfalls

launch themselves from cliffs

white-streamered

blown sideways in the rain.

And always there is the wind.

Poseidon's horses run free

on lava sand beaches

breaching the luster

of the broken surf

foam dissolving

and the sea becomes night

dark as basalt.

--Wulf Losee