It would take very little, wouldn’t it,

to take that horse in the field across the road—

that mare not wayward at all but tranquil

in the wind-wavering domesticity

of grass, her flank, quartz-white,

nuzzled by her coffee-coloured foal, the two

deftly, attentively grooming each other—

take so little in the shape of a blunt gun

or even a wayward missile

landing near my neighbour’s shed

to take the two of them, mother and child,