Bog Myrtle & Peat

Snow has found the horses raw and tall as pillars in the dawn. They had moved to the leeward edge of the beech trees when light began to fail, and now they are not moving but standing with three square hooves on the frost-baked mud and their fourths held off at softly shedding angles. 

Their heads are being held down, and in sunlight these creatures were and will be black and white; but for now they’re shades of blue and navy brown – puffs of heavy breath attempted to rise but now are chilling and sinking to hang at ankle-height. Facing them along their deep receding backs, I come upon their shapes like dark and frightening men. It’s my instinct to soften the mood with a smile, but there’s no getting through to them.

And now a bird has swept across the blackened bog and turns to come again. It would be white, but now it’s double-grey and backswept in the gathering darkness and the overturning swell of snow becomes a burst of hotel saucers and scallop shells and bits of brittle, cutty things. 

I have seen barn owls hunting in the snow like this and felt the amber tone of their wings like the stain of nicotine on laid-out, colden fingers. But this bird is brighter than an owl; it’s downright raptorial, sheer and glancing; over-dependent upon eyelight. I can see this in the way it’s sometimes lost, and finally comes too close to me as danger. 

In this moment, the harrier is flaring back and turning in terror to ride for several stone’s-thrown distances down towards the safety of the moor. And at some invisible point, the fear has passed; panic is downgraded and the search for mice continues. But in our shared and panicked edge, I am closer to that bird than any stand of dreaming, haltered horses.

With obvious acknowledgements to Ted Hughes…