Exultance
by Stephen Mead

Clip clop, clip clop-----
the blue cobbles are ringing
& the belgian block wood
in this time, this city, this night,
these hansom bells
our century’s angelus.


Footman, you of the liveried,
what is to be destined?
What foreshadowing under each shod hoof
& from clanging harnesses,
the motion whipped manes?
Are they russian or klysdale,
these pliant giants so docile
but with loyal speed for each
royal riding Anastasia
on the run
into vanishing gas lamps,
the intrigue of history's rhythm?


Black nostrils of might
breathe fierce white mist,
heat exhaust disappearing
through too pure snow flakes. 
From the distance they seem
like stars, & other sleds are
schooners skating on the river
ice of every road...


Surely slaughter shall not follow this,
the skeletal scars of our foundations
already speaking
of the looted art,
the burned books,
the entrail-spilled conflict
between need and greed.


Surely the wars that brought us
to this place of candlemas shine
in all these buildings
shall not harvest shed blood,
(will they?)
in the evermore.


But, shush, says gloved driver,
taking one hand from the reins,
one hand laid on my hand, lifting
it gently to cover my mouth.


It will take us each
our whole lifetime, he explains,
and many more, to recover
from our lives, but, 
listen,
clip clop,
the bells anyway ring.