The Marrow 22 June Written By Todd Turner On Pincian Hill He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night;—Percy Bysshe ShelleyThe Roman dust is a white powdered fetlock. Keats feels the horse’s pulse, a heavy, thudding counterpoint to the thin, internal ticking of his dissolving lungs.Up, where the Pincio curves its stone shoulder, he steers into a drift of laurel-shade. The air is a blade, honed by the coming winter, cutting the very breaththe long sea-voyage had tried to keep afloat. The Maria Crowther was a wooden cage on a salt-grey swell. Now, he is a rider. A brother to the wind shaking the ilex trees,his hand loose on the leather, tasting the last of the world. He passes the Borghese, the snaffle-bit clicking its iron bead in a slow, rhythmic trot, fever-flushed against the gravel silence,on a face gone pale as a river-reed. Severn is a worried figure, standing in the Italian glare, watching a man try to outride the shadows at his feet. The horse is all muscle and earth,a terrifying weight of life. He dismounts—and halts— where the cobbles hit the light. His hand lingers upon the reins— Night is the only horse now that knows the way back home. Todd Turner
The Marrow 22 June Written By Todd Turner On Pincian Hill He has outsoar’d the shadow of our night;—Percy Bysshe ShelleyThe Roman dust is a white powdered fetlock. Keats feels the horse’s pulse, a heavy, thudding counterpoint to the thin, internal ticking of his dissolving lungs.Up, where the Pincio curves its stone shoulder, he steers into a drift of laurel-shade. The air is a blade, honed by the coming winter, cutting the very breaththe long sea-voyage had tried to keep afloat. The Maria Crowther was a wooden cage on a salt-grey swell. Now, he is a rider. A brother to the wind shaking the ilex trees,his hand loose on the leather, tasting the last of the world. He passes the Borghese, the snaffle-bit clicking its iron bead in a slow, rhythmic trot, fever-flushed against the gravel silence,on a face gone pale as a river-reed. Severn is a worried figure, standing in the Italian glare, watching a man try to outride the shadows at his feet. The horse is all muscle and earth,a terrifying weight of life. He dismounts—and halts— where the cobbles hit the light. His hand lingers upon the reins— Night is the only horse now that knows the way back home. Todd Turner
