Bucolic Shadow

A whip-weathered mistress astride a majestic beast,
delivered us a silver lie—
to pad her frailty, or soothe her fear.

A horse killed by Rhodesian Ridgebacks,
she croaked.
The dogs as wildly spooked as the mare.
The horse felled like an oak—
its girth should have crushed them.

Instead: savagely torn from reason,
snarling, saliva flung in unrhyming arcs,
a demonic pack operating
rigged with electricity—
jaws in seizure,
possessed.

How wide the crescent whites of her eyes,
nostrils gaping, breath expelled.
Cruel dog.
The well-fed pack.

These are the memories we cast our contemplation over
in the gallery of the valley
where fallen beasts roll down to waste, to decompose.
All masters of this exhibition.

We observe quietly,
on a Sunday meant for walking.

A poem by Me.

Oil on Canvas. 70 × 50 cm | 19.6” × 27.5” inch

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