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Horse Farmer Poem
The unexpected heavy thud
of netted hay on solid wood.
My horses snort and sigh and chew,
as glistening cobwebs sway with dew. There is comfort in their rhythmic chomp, on seeing me they grunt and stomp. Stamping an insistent need for feed,
all eyes upon me fixed by greed.
I mix the chaff, the beet, the grain,
as stable gates take up the strain
of thick set chest and plunging neck while I do bend to their call and beck. Our daily ritual now in full swing,
the rubber skips I'll lift and bring
'till steady chomp and grind return,
in the warm sweet smelling peace I yearn.
Copyright © Horse Farmer | Year Posted 2018
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Horse Farmer Poem
Standing tall and proud as Punch, Albert, my Suffolk, softens to receive his collar.
I lift the hames across his back,
throw over pad and traces, belts and chains,
while he stands like a scholar.
He has a generosity of spirit that shames me, his human confederate.
I buckle up the straps
and clip the breast and belly rigs,
as in my way inveterate.
Albert accepts my preparations to enslave him in horse drawn servitude without complaint. Standing ready, he paws the ground
in keen anticipation of the work ahead,
like some equine saint.
The bridle's next with cold hard bit,
yet with lowered head and open mouth he bends in submission. He's ready now to do my bidding, to oblige me with his power, nobly to go about his tasks,
without thought of opposition.
Our partnership builds daily,
like the shy appreciation of coy lovers, growing but barely.
His very compliance demands of me
an unconscious duty to use him fairly.
To trust his judgement, as he does mine,
to work as Primus Inter Pares, not overlord. I am certain always was this the bond,
even when man sat horse in armour,
and with a heavy sword.
My sword, put up these four years now, is into a ploughshare turned.
My harness is put away,
a peaceful, simple, and tranquil life re-learned.
Copyright © Horse Farmer | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Horse Farmer Poem
Chop, chop, crack, snap
Pull the stem firmly back,
Bend and twist, fold and weave, Then step back, admire, and leave.
Moving slowly along the line,
Fix recalcitrant boughs with twine, contemplative work and gentle strain, Ease the mind and calm the brain.
The birds fly down as if to see, What goes on, between tree and me. No mechanical trimmer here, thrashing twigs and hewing clear.
Working with the natural form,
with ancient tools, gnarled and worn. There is for me no better way,
to spend a bright cold winters day.
Copyright © Horse Farmer | Year Posted 2018
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Details |
Horse Farmer Poem
What makes a village quaint?
It's neither thatch, nor paint,
but the random humanity of no design, that makes a hamlet seem divine.
An absence of any particular plan,
the chaotic choices of everyman. Practical solutions made in haste multiply to a state of grace.
Man's desire to impose his will
more oft than not does only ill.
So here's a cup to wiggly walls,
to half done thatch and wood clad walls, for in our careless human madness
is sown the seed of village gladness.
Copyright © Horse Farmer | Year Posted 2018
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