Tuur Verheyde
Nightmare
The Mare creeps like
A man, shrunken and
Shrivelled, onto sleepers;
Pressing the breath
From the chest with
Its dark gallop. Charms
Exist against it. I say:
Honour Epona, greatest
Of mares. Pray that she
May recall her runaway
And let your sleep canter
Daintily towards dawn.
