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


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


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.