Hay Fever

The horses of my memory
were brown and white and black.
There used to be a large green field,
the horse pen in the back.
Beyond the lake, but up the hill of rocks,
there was a trail.
I rode the slow and gentle one,
kind eyed and swingy tailed.
But now the horses have all gone;
when did they leave and why
does memory keep them always here
beneath this dust? My eyes
still itch at the neaness of hay,
of what was black and white,
and brown, and ridden on trails this dirt's
now hidden from my sight.