Ioanna Warwick

---

The Horse Knows The Way

The dorozhka is waiting as though

it's been waiting for a hundred years--

the driver at the beer kiosk,

the horse resigned, barely flicking his ears.

The old road through the pass.
Poplars taper to silver.
Clots of soil spatter under
the wooden creaking of the wheels.

Wind--then a stillness. The first drops.
The driver unrolls the roof.
The rain grows heavy, knocking,
fingering us from all sides.

The driver jumps in with us:
The horse knows the way.
The carriage rocks like an ark,
the horse a steady brown rhythm.

And everything becomes sound,
the rain, the road,
the hooves like a clock;
the river hissing in its bed.

A village past the river willows;
the sunken bell of vespers.
The horse stops. Ribbons of steam
curl off his flanks.

The rain hushes, a shining prayer
along the dripping leaves.
The dorozhka disappears
in the wet green silence.

But the horse knows the way,
earth-brown horse in a halo of steam,
hooves ticking on the wooden bridge

Copyright (C) Ioanna Warwick, 2006. All rights reserved.

NEXT