Ride. In the emerging morning light.
The dance of your milk-white horse.
The cantering sound of passage
Clips the air.
Music to render me silent.
I never wanted to touch you, only to see you.
On this day, in the pale mist breath,
I watch your silver-tethered horse,
in the distance, riding the new born day.
Through the lode stones punctuating the moor into history.
Connected, in the way
I will never be, stabled as I am in high walls of brick.

[Deborah Walker grew up in the most English town in the country, but she soon high-tailed it down to London, where she now lives with her partner, Chris, and her two young children. Find Deborah in the British Museum trawling the past for future inspiration or on her blog. Deborah’s poems have appeared in Dreams & Nightmares, Star*Line and Enchanted Conversation.]