Poems ✍️

They seem to be thinking, soft-eyed, snuffling, cropping,
ears awake to many signals,
then move gently closer,
as if they were unaware,
rub muzzles, necks,
love each other silently, almost imperceptibly,
move away again as gently;
solitude in company may hide
what we do not hear; what we do not think

the battle horse long retired
so skilled in life and death,
proud of many battles
he and his master as one
swords flashing, leaning sharply
this way that way
rearing for height flail smashed down
backward now spear and charge
a marriage sealed in blood
his master’s life saved many times

the packhorse ridden in haste
through dangerous lands
with despatches that may
signal the start to war, or
sue for peace
its rider impatient to thoughtlessness

the horses of the range
sharing the wild vigour
of cowboys, pioneers,
breathing the air
of a new country
themselves once wild
knowing the hills, the herbs, more than their masters

the racehorse proud we think
to test itself, share the victory,
then at stud, to share its line
knowing perhaps in blood,
aristocracy; or not, who knows,
they do indeed look quietly proud

the family stable horses, knowing
the love of boys, of girls,
besotted with their ponies,
talked to endlessly; too many sugar cubes

the tradesmen’s horses,
the ploughmen’s horses,
who have learned more patience,
more obedience, than many
of their masters yet
tended well, most times
by those who need them
more than they say; but
how the children of those
they visit, run from the house,
loving to see them again
like old friends

all remember, maybe communicate;
we hope they know - or would it make them sad -
that they too had their golden age.