About ZygmuntÕs horse

 

The blind black horse frets

                            in wattle-bloomed air,

For the Polish lawyer, its master

                            who dared

Kiss the hand of death in a flickering newsreel,

Leaping with the cavalry against Wehrmacht steel,

Leaving red shiny horses on village fields

And young bugled corpses

                            rotting there.

 

 

WarÕs end, and his faith

                            unbowed,

Zygmunt migrated, a dream

                            soon soured,

No recognition here for his eloquence,

Worked in a factory of no consequence,

His law books in mouldy irrelevance.

Tonight the horse wears a blanket,

                            Zygmunt a shroud.

 

 

-------

 

Midnight, the street

 

puffed eyes blaze his

turmoil from

a doorway

 

we cross the road

escaping

his harangues

 

that bottle in

brown paper,

a weapon?

 

for company,

a blanket

on the step

 

and someoneÕs piss

streaked like tears

on the wall

 

© James Aitchison

 

Bio:  James is from Australia and his work has appeared in two anthologies down under.  Eskimopie.net is the first US magazine to publish his poems.