Danielle Hope 
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On these pages I reproduce (with their, and their publishers, permission) a poem of a fellow-poet that I especially like or that moves me.
Below is a poem that is very much of the season, all mud and wet fields. 

by William Oxley

from In The Drift Of Words (Rockingham Press)

Alone or in pairs like penitents they stand

in unholy wind at the bleakest edge

of fields of winter-gutted farmland

where inedible ivy clings to crazy walls

and trees offer bare ideas of form and age.

Some wear coats like men in shabby overalls

or chamois-naked stand log-still

fetlocked in a mash of ice and mud.

I marvel at their patience in such chill,

spare-ribbed statues of neglect whose

wincing flanks betray frost-detected blood,

and think they have a dream

of long-stalked days of green to come:

a special dream – they must! – that will preserve

a sanity and hope in horsey gloom,

which nature files for all who do deserve

some help through days of pre-death death

when wind would drill the stars from night

and freeze to glass bouquets a horse's breath

vainly cropping at rigid spikes of spite

and withered fodder far withdrawn

in nettled corners of each sunless dawn.