His hands charmed Sparrows and beachfolk’s eyes alike.

Stroked fine grains in to flowing yellow movement.

Sheltered by the Sea wall with tanned skin and

Dark eyes framed by kind lines.

His back  warmed on kind days,

chased away by cruel Cornish squalls.

Surrounding him, families in hushed awe.

Always, I felt with my wise Six years,

waiting for something.


Children peering over the wall’s edge, watching

the horse mid-gallop.

All gathered again at high-tide,

Goaded by morbid fascination as the high waves

drew the grains back.

Reclaiming drying flanks, turning  wet and lustrous.


© Tom Tide 2016

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