You stop to look at them,
on a morning when the ice imprisons the sun,
Their shuffle breaks the muddy glass of the ground.
And you pause and find they are already looking at you,
with a sorrow they will not communicate.
On the other side of the barrier,
spectators at an accident, or aliens,
compassionate, examining your frail and damaged flesh.
What future grief do they foresee?
What present tenderness?
The horses know and will not tell.
When you remember, and return to them again,
you will find them gone, distant, on the other side of the field,
guarding the secret that you never told.