If I was my mother,

and you were a horse,

I would not wrap the lead

into my fist

as we walk the track

with their ruined nissan huts

patch up by ivy,

so we can’t see through

the hollow sockets

of broken windows

to the emptiness inside,

always emptiness inside,

and always me with a fist

of lead

to draw you closer

to heel

in case the emptiness

is not what it seems.