Day after day I see his long ponderous mane
Hanging like great melancholy
Over that five bar gate .
Whitened into the grey of resignation
The doleful neck hangs abject and submissively
In the incessant drizzle
Of rain and beating wind;
Staring out onto the street
To see the cars flash by
And I wonder at the turmoil in that face
Of docile , exhausted melancholy ;
What’s on his undimmed mind
One wretched ,hopeless,
Disappointing day , one upon another.?
Does he heed with any expectation, the passing traffic?
Or those tourists who stop up to take his picture ,
And throw a penny in the trough
To scrutinise his coal black eyes
Which only blink when the rain has beaten down ,his great lashes.
To see the monstrous beauty there uncoiled
I have to set aside my own coils
That entrap me ; that tether and spancel me to
My own form ,my class ;my breed ; my conscience ;
My contaminated , indoctrinated view of his equine world
Does he see the sky : clouds .the passing seasons ?
The moon crossing the night sky,
The rise and fall on the lake shore ,
The upturned boats in winter
Like pupae of caterpillars
Metamorphose to fishing boats ;
Gay and bright
Like butterflies nimble light
To sally forth upon the lake
After the Winter has passed ,
Do the trough and rick of hay
Distract him , or punctuate his day
Does he recognise me from another ?
Why does he look with those huge black eyes
That seem to suck in all surrounding light
Into the great vault that holds his brain;
For his rumination ,
And his leisurely contemplation.?
Does he think dark thoughts of scorn
Of resentment ,
At how he endured abuse at
The heavy hand of a pitiless farmer
He shows no emotion
He doesn’t show his hand
And that’s what gets me all the time
He just stares out at the passing world
Over the five bar gate ,
And I wonder
What’s his game. ?