For George Anthell Between them is the land of broken colors, the land that makes a mock of him with miles. He rides, he rides, he passes through the flat chrome wheatfields cut by the plough of the river makers. The hills are aslant, the clay torsos, the hills, the clay has a red wound, it gapes. The white roots cry, there is a mute susurrus in the dark: poppies, poppies are you not their pain? With hoof on flint and flint the black horse rides: black wind, black against fire. The black horse crooks his forelegs, the hills split open, his nostrils pour flame. Snort, snort through miles, O charger, through rock. He drinks the mezas, he burns his thin knees over braziers of grass: Ride, ride. Sky is spilt water, a silver hello is flung from star to star. Black horse breaks fire underfoot and now his mane is a burnt city, his mouth churned ocean, foam on his belly a constellation. At last he tramples the sand behemoth Asleep before the sea.