Crested each with ostrich plumes,
his two horses had just outrun their nerves:
were now at ease in cruising gallop.
They greased the air with horse-sweat,
slipping his chariot through the gold of afternoon
with plumes, manes and tails inscribing his arrival.
The wake of Nile air raked his hair and cooled him.
Best of all: the very suddenness
of passing horses, chariot and young pharaoh
disturbed the courtiers lounging on the terrace,
astonished the roadside bricklayers
—who looked up but could not bow in time—
and perhaps impressed a scribe's daughter or two.
To free a hand for waving
he wound the reins around his waist.
When he turned to face the people and the west
his vision filled not with the veering freight-cart ahead
but with a searing light.
The sun's brilliance glowed
from the fine, pale horses, the golden chariot
and from his own white linen,
and he could not have blamed the bystanders
had they thought him an immortal god.
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