23 JUNE 2007, Page 37

Stung

Stung like a gelding sixteen hands high, spooked, tangled up in my clothesline and horse flies, holding me down behind the barn, spinning yarn, frost, dew and moss, outhouses, covered bridges slung over Battle Creek, you reek of hog swill and clover, it clings to your shirt and my lungs.

I catch your eye, swine, shade, a hopeless stand of trees.

Fay Hart