After Ted Hughes Out on the moors in the late June light,I stood where the infinite hills halved the skyand saw where you first saw your horses.Were they left over from a fever dream,dropped momentarily from some other planet?But in that instant, they existed: ten of them,megaliths with draped manes and tiltedhind hooves; each utterly silent, unmovingin the icy morning air. As you passed by,the big sun erupted, darkness shook openand showed you its fires. But your horsesremained: patient and gray, statue-likein the iron light, enduring on the horizon.In the crowded streets of London, amidthe sea of admiring faces, the scandals,the accolades, did you ever again findso peaceful a place? Or are you still outthere, slipping through hills, hidingin the trees, lying in the heathers,combing the barren moors, still searching?