The hoof-beaten brain
a recipe of tears and sweat
and this utterly speed of rhythm
kneads her thighs to the saddle
stirs her into the summer blues
away and away with.
She knows his sandshape grip
his brutal bit that pulls a grin,
that gags a want to crawl
towards the ever there darkscape,
A match striking the moors
she sparks her blood to sand
that moulds its gritty mirage
through vein and artery
leaving scorched earth
and a blister of sun..
