Winter riot of waves the way these stones
pile up, as if the dead, twelve deep in places,
had risen cold and left in anger. Something
threatening in their supernatural overlap
and angle, too alive, awkward, accidental,
some pushed hard from under, like the roots,
some dropped harder, broken with the rain,
under the limes and brooding maples—limestone,
sandstone, rose Silvenec marble ruined.
At The Watering of the Horses of the Sun
Apollo holds the water in a shell from
which one blazing stallion drinks, while
holding off three others breathing fire
with a hand and the pure power of his body—
this in bas-relief above the double stable
doors of the eighteenth-century Hotel de Rohan.
And clouds. Le Lorrain has built his story
at the source, both rain and horses coming
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