One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail <br />above the door, still losing its luck, <br />and a work-collar swings, an empty <br />old noose. The silence waits, wild to be <br />broken by hoofbeat and heavy <br />harness slap, will founder but remain; <br />while, outside, above the stable, <br />eight, nine, now ten buzzards swing low <br />in lazy loops, a loose black warp <br />of patience, bearing the blank sky <br />like a pall of wind on mourning <br />wings. But the bones of this place are <br />long picked clean. Only the hayrake's <br />ribs still rise from the rampant grasses<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stable-2/
