wild konic horses in kent
twigs snap beneath our feet
spiralling shivers through frost laden air
echoing in fields where dormice lay
scaring a black as death crow
at an early morning feast
the haunting sound of stillness
hangs tortuously up to the horizon
as the greyness drains away
and there before us stand the horses
stalwart and statuesque
as if frozen for aeons
the oldest instrument of man
dappled greys and browns
adorning manes now tinged with
the reds and golds of erupting sun
glistening coats steaming
breathing, unmoving
silent power
heads hung
patient and serene
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