You watch the other children play late on the turn of the solstice.
The youngest almost naked scatter amongst the outhouses.
Their pearly skin returning the moonlight, terrifying the horses.
The witches miss their hour,
And the somnambulists stay in bed.
You grumble about bent coppers in a burnt-out trailer,
Surrendering what remains,
Paralysed in a state of an embittered stranger.
A black stream collects in the courtyard as it rains.
The courtyard where I imagined when I first read Animal Farm,
The courtyard where the pigs would address the square with the authority of crows at traffic lights.
I wondered why horses were the only animals to need shoes when they went running,
Cows have hooves and they seemed to be doing ok.