I

On these dark nights,
the sky crimsoning, it builds
within me. A strange woman sings,
silken chords I couldn’t capture
waiting by the window
for a glimpse of grey
mufti. You hated that tie,
like cold blood you said,
dark maroon; and I
at your feet making colt’s eyes.

II

The man I remember
walks staccato past flower vendors
and Marz-O-Rin
where couples poise ice-cream
livid with cherries.
I follow quickly,
the street marked
with grey all the way
to my room, where I am

drawn to scent
of mango blossom filling air.
He leans in his chair,
his legs splayed. He is bad
he says, at words;
but our feet can speak.

III

All day long the neighbour’s mare
has called in fields.
I try to appease her with apples,
but she runs away,
muzzling air. There is nothing
I can do, see how she gallops
bullet straight; half beats
like echoes. She looks back,
startled to see who follows,
but there’s no shadow there.

IV

At night the mare is
a wave in the field,
her cremello foal nosing
where her mother’s tail
beckons like a whip.

I remember you as a boy,
hawk-eyed by your father’s shoulder.

V

Not all things are
shadows filling rooms.

The grass is green here,
no voices like ravens
hopping on bare branch to branch.

I wake to light
pawing furniture,
velvet ripples in fields.

My rooms are full of windows.

VI

The south-clouds have blended
the mare grey. She is
invisible in shadow;
a flame in light.

I watch her appear
and disappear, hooves whipping
iris and purple heather.

She changes shape,
out-distancing hedgerows,
becomes the scent of rain.

Copyright © Tupa Snyder, 2007.

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Tupa Snyder, originally from Calcutta, currently lives in Exeter where she is in the process of completing her PhD at the University. Shearsman Books published her first full-length collection No Man’s Land in mid-2007, which also featured this poem. She also has work in the 2007 Stride anthology The Allotment.