The Pony on the Point
The Pony on the Point
His face turned to the wood, the black pony
blends into the almost dusk,
cold descends upon the steppes
a single homestead stands
out against the rocky cliffs
above the sea
Grasses nearly obscure him
we see only his neck thick with fur and mane
his dark eyes pools of light through the mist
Stock still, he considers us, strangers
at the overgrown gate, as my camera
finds him in the unforgiving landscape