The Old Horses
ON a worn, dusty track two bays clop across a valley field with starched fluidity and dull manes overgrown, flattenedby a teasing breeze that dares not breatheon show plaits and squared quarters.
Only dark oaks notice them, arms extended
as if about to clap, and black rooks
cheer when these nags pass so quietly.
Sometimes, they pause and crop
whilst, in the next field, applause
for young horses that soar bright fences,
free from aches that plague old age.
Yet this does not move these veterans
as, at a gladed brook, they stop
where ripples flow into and out of the shade.
Mary Charman-Smith