My father met my horse when he was 19.
She was 12, but you only had to see them together.
He was handsome and she was incomparably beautiful.
She also had the most wonderful singing voice.
Father said she could sing the stars out of the sky.
My friends would come round just to be with her.
She was like a second horse to them.
When I was eleven she gave me my horse scarf.
Such a wonderful texture; cool in summer, warm in winter.
She made it from an old shirt belonging to my father.
He would never throw anything away.
But he was so angry. It was the first and last time
that I ever heard him use the word linen.
ON THE DIFFICULTY OF LEARNING CHINESE by Cliff Yates | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
