A window hewn into the wall
Allows a glimpse of a morning moor;
Bright sunlight pierces a bridle hanging off the wall.
The grass is dark and wet
and clouded by a morning haze
It is wild and untouched and still
The edges of the window are crooked
And there is no glass to bar out the chill morning
A bright angle of light rests upon its sill,
peeking patiently into the rough barn
A breeze rushes over the grass,
whispering through the window,
brushing the decaying wooden walls,
tickling a solitary bridle that dangles from a hook
The silver bit glints white
The faded brown leather starts to glow
The bridle is alone.
It is like an old war hero
That after a seeming eternity
Of blood, of speed, of adrenaline—
and slowly forgotten.
The ark on the windowsill widens
The day slowly passes, and as before
the bridle hangs.