Domestic

The sign read “semi-feral”, which he explained

was because one day in their unstable youth,

all swollen knees and juddering legs,

they were driven into what he called a crush

(a wooden ring the foals would circle wild

with fear until they found their mare),

where they were vaccinated, branded, and had their tails

docked, before being left to roam

amid the fading purple of an autumn heath.

All this – a puncture, a scar, a military cut -

meant the ponies running either side of us

as you pulled back on me in fear

were half way to being right. Half way

from being ferae (beasts and wild things) but as far

from the domus (the house, or home) where

life awakes its better breeding. In just such a home

you lie in bed beside me as I watch the news –

your head on my armpit as you half see

more celebrities and paedophiles penned in

another crush, heads lowly like a grazing foal,

watching their feet walk them out of another house,

their membership revoked. And I watch you

dozing, and hope beyond what all I know

that this thin legged little house of ours may last.

And then I too am taken into sleep, that unruly

skating skim of thought, where my hair grows long

and my skin uncleansed, and when I wake

I wake afraid that all my loving you won’t help.