The Irish Literary Times

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,