Four-In-Hand Poem by John a'Beckett

Twilight can snap its shackle
Step on a four-horse cart
Hard on the head wind whistle,
Give the wild whipped horses bray
Say neigh to Conventional Knowing
Speed of this sort is an art.

Night ice can have History crackle
Ah, the fury of men in moustaches
their fanatical fast home-going,
fling mud in the face of Fate
bursting from puddles. The tight

Belt of Time- break its buckle,
shed destiny, charge at you out of day
And like these riders tearing across ice
as if to get home in time to do what-
nestle by the calm fire with a kettle?

More like: burst out of Partition Poland,
Look at this painting too long and just
find you might have to muster up metal
to not linger but get out of its way.