Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke

I land in a paddock, the moon
whispers greater sense in an
afternoon sky made for you, and
all you love. The horses belong
here, and also to a wider planet,
without fences, with other heavenly
harmonies. I call to the sky—
bless these horses, and bless
the cattle from birth to purpose.
To each fragile thing echo your
hope. Ride the sunset into
velvet, into a dawn that knows
the breath of all creatures
microscopic, cosmic in their being.