A Dead Horse Distraction

She stares staunchly left, Her Maj, never right -

as if to turn might break her

russet-faced watch over Envelopeland

and the whole five-line empire would crumble.

I put her in my pocket

pull the door, lock it, and step out

into the rain.

I’m reminded of a Tom Waits song

though I can’t recall its name -

something… something… Marilyn Monroe,

blue bullets,

I don’t know

- a blackbird calls from a rowan tree

its bright orange beak a berry

amid branchfuls of milky blossom.

She sings to me - or is she a he? - flutters

then finds a new perch.

I round the corner to Highgate.

The rain has stopped.

Three glass flasks sit resplendent

in the window of the chemist’s shop,

each filled with coloured liquid -

red, blue and green

- like an ad for a sweet shop

selling the hardest of candy.

My hand, still in its pocket, checks on Her Maj

- dry as a bone, I mouth

as I try to remember my tibia from my fibula

and a rubbish joke

about the humerus.

A rainbow has formed

a halo over the bellcote

of the clocktower.

I stop -

every colour on earth

in one place.

I close my eyes,

lift my face, breathe it in...

there is nothing here to see

and everything

- when I open my eyes there’s a horse

on the wall

below the clock,

carved and weathered

by a century of rain.

Its body remains

but its legs have been taken

by the slow-march of time;

it hovers there

in its sandstone coffin

a dead horse in the dead yellow centre of town.

I glance down

- when I raise my chin the rainbow isn't there.

Her Maj’s face is under my thumb -

I rub her cheek

and place her in the care of the bright red box

that bears her name

- she's home now

I pray for the same.