God, the wind up here makes liquid
of the grasses. They are brown all
year round and must long for rest,
poor hills. Around the corner
is a white horse, an old one
or a newer counterfeit it’s hard
to tell, does it matter.
That zone is shielded from the wind
and thus, the chalk bust and legs
and mane are staying put, while
out front several degrees of
Wiltshire are dominion to Heddington
Downs, averse to rest and absorbing
war things, deer droppings.
And just down from the point
where men with jackets warm throw
toy airplanes in the wind, there
is a stone plinth on which matters of
the milieu of the many liquid plants
are viewed underneath the loop-the-loops.
There are no engines.