'Amongst the Horses' by Tom Wentworth

Do you see that speck upon the hill so high?
I see everything from my position down below;
they do not stir,
they do not shake their tails
in the silky, cinematic landscape
and as the breeze rushes past,
they do not stir again:
the paths of one thousand giants
crunch and crackle like the mints
that the horses love so much.
I would not touch them,
would not dare;
a shaggy set they are
but content like teddy bears of suede.
The thickness of the tufts of grass decrease,
as I am swallowed,
but an earthy smell rises,
silvery statues, left to days of sun.
The sun has retired
and so must I
I am the horse whisperer.