By John Fuller
The serene child, left to her own devices,
Has chosen to become a helmeted centaur.
As her nose and chin advance through the air,
Her fair hair follows, like a pavane.
Her everywhere is the map in her head
Of a country without boundaries.
There may be some clip-clop on a stretch of road
Or a standing in the river, gently snorting.
But all the hinterland is bramble fields
And a holly path beside the woods
Where the divots stand in the tan earth
Proud as biscuits, as she rides on
To secret woods within the woods
Where the floor is an indetermination of needles,
Where the buzzards whoop above the tree tops
And ghastly fungi bulge like wounds.
It is safe to say that elegant ambulation
May be an end in itself, an adventure.
Where he goes, she goes;
Where she goes, he goes.
The arrangement is completely satisfying,
Like some sort of agreed marriage
In which a singleness of purpose
Finds its mysterious reciprocation.