The stillness only
three generations of money can buy
is honeyed by the evening light,
channelled across the paddock,
touched lightly down on lawns
manicured to excellence
by hired Honduran hands.
The stable block is quiet
where the horses stand and wait.
Only the muted swish as a
tail cuts through the stilted air
and a long breath is exhaled
along velvet nostrils laced with
exquisite beads of exchange.
But the eye is different.
Black sphere refracting light
back to the beholder,
wide and wild, the culmination
Of a nervous system bred
to edgy perfection.
The eye of it's ancestor
survives, and almost prevails.
