Helen
My name is Helen Salter, and I care for the soles of horses.
I care for heels and toes, and the kind, surrounding wall.
When I place a shoe or repair the foot, to me it is all that matters
that the horse will travel easy and carry no pain at all.
I shoe with heat the warmbloods, showhorses and the hacks.
I coldshoe smaller ponies ridden mainly at weekend.
In yard or paddock, covered by strands of freedom from the wind,
with tools and stand and apron, I am mother and best friend.
There are times when people watch me. They never say a word.
Some wince when I rasp the wall; they think I am making pain.
They wince when I cut the sole and hammer in the nails.
They sigh when I release the foot to rest on the ground again.
I am callgirl to my horses, and I do my professional best.
I try to understand them; some are spoilt, afraid or shy.
But while I can hold, and pull a horse's leg across my own,
I think I'll keep a-shoeing underneath a wide, strong sky.
High-rise
We lie on the brink of high-rise and black
sky, guests of the celestial world.
The moon watches through the window.
He covers us with his silver gown, woven
from ocean spume. The brittle stars
wink without rest.
Below, the city sparkles with false jewels.
The river twists like a black snake,
wriggling its wayy to the sea. Beneath
its stones, or trapped in its banks, languish
our hopes and dreams. They belong
to yesterday.
We are older, and our time runs quickly,
more surely, like the river. We press
white doves to our hearts, fearful their
warmth will leave us and expose
places of pain knitted into our lives.
But though our spirits soar less, passion
stays to our last smiles. It flows from
our beings' essence, the reservoir of
deepest secrets. It triumphs on whatever
path that ignites it. Tonight, its lust
sings through our bodies. It demands
ultimate acuity.
Cheekbones press and hurt. Arms clasp,
and our bodies give and take with
unspoken need. We breathe each other's
breath, and the flesh of our lips spreads
ripe and soft as mellow fruit.
We relax as the moon relinquishes care.
The stars have spent their glitter, and
hide. The morning light absorbs and
exposes us to the limited endeavours of
our lives. It spirals us down to our
requirements from bitumen -
to walk its strength, separately.
Daughter
The moss of years intrudes our flesh.
Our hearts continue to pulse their pain.
Though day brings pieces of time to forget,
night hovers with weeds of despair again.
Why did she die? What fate moved in
to sever the bonds of her earthly life -
who never unwrapped the covers of sin,
who welcomed and warmed with her thought, her smile.
In sleep our minds' dark barriers crack.
Tears spring to wash the other's face.
Locked in loss, bewildered by fact
we try to be wise, keep holy our space.
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