| Seven kings
stir under the chalk quarry
white-fleshed as eels.
Which blizzard
they will ride through
before scouring the turf
I do not know –
blackthorn whitening the wind,
fossil dust rising
but when they emerge
from muffled detonations
into a milky sun
each horse and rider
will be whiter
than the nests of cave-swifts
made from saliva.
|