Tuur Verheyde
Wagon Ride
We are drawn across the farmland,
The early autumn chill whistling
Through our canvas covering;
The clacking hooves, the rattling
Bells, the chattering colleagues,
The crisp sunlight dousing
The landscape green in gold
Beneath skies of cloud-clad
Cerulean.
As the sitting arrangements shift
Randomly with each brief trek,
And the horses bring us closer
To where we need to be, we catch
Ourselves conversing or listening,
Attentively, silently, watching
Layers of vulnerability unpeel
In the horse-reek of pre-planned
Congeniality.
