After Ted Hughes
Out on the moors in the late June light,
I stood where the infinite hills halved the sky
and saw where you first saw your horses.
Were they left over from a fever dream,
dropped momentarily from some other planet?
But in that instant, they existed: ten of them,
megaliths with draped manes and tilted
hind hooves; each utterly silent, unmoving
in the icy morning air. As you passed by,
the big sun erupted, darkness shook open
and showed you its fires. But your horses
remained: patient and gray, statue-like
in the iron light, enduring on the horizon.
In the crowded streets of London, amid
the sea of admiring faces, the scandals,
the accolades, did you ever again find
so peaceful a place? Or are you still out
there, slipping through hills, hiding
in the trees, lying in the heathers,
combing the barren moors, still searching?
