At grass, crossing back through its scent, wending Through the untended field, its dun-blotch robes, Damp-flared, un-clinging, godhead depending From the noosed vent, eyes, eyes now rapt in mud-probe. Far over I had seen more, rain-tame, scattered, Shawled in the same stain, shored on the hillside. Chained, in the brimming field, this one mattered Somehow, to me, foundering in the raintide. Flying the flag of itself in low weather, Circling its limit, sure of the halter’s strength Fastened in the mire. A cold bold tether, Its bright line lay in my mind, a vexing length. In the thrill, sere and still, moored in mud-berth, The mare is mingled with the unsingle earth.
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