Being Shod

A warm Spring's fragrant wind lifts leaf shadows as, molten metal sizzles from the sudden wet plunge A farrier holds firm the muddy fetlock while on three legs a plough horse stands, docile beneath the hammer blows A brown eye shines and gently shuts- he lets a practised hand glide over sweat-stained withers that wiggle when a fly lands The first foot falls- a soft snort from a velvet muzzle as he lifts the other to be shod Soft hooves becoming, iron clad For the contest, Any Poem, sponsor, Broken Wings must appear on poem