• 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.