0024 Horses In A Field

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.