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
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