Lullaby
I want a slow horse. Those heavy-hoofed kinds
that used to drag a plough across a field
or haul the beer drays through the town.
I’d sit up high, proud as an empress
with reins in hand, an easy sway of hips
rollicking like hills from side-to-side.
We’d walk the daylong lanes, breathe in
the smell of mouldering hay and apple pulp.
The heartbeat pace of metal shoes on stone.
A broad support of back. I’d press my cheek
close to the fuzz of muscled neck, wind fingers
through his mane, tether myself at night.
Through plodding dark I’d whisper stories
in his velvet ears, of fabled beasts
looming from a golden age of horses:
the fairground strength of Suffolk Punch,
Dutch Draft, a trusted Clydesdale,
sing battle songs of brave Percheron,
the long-gone jousting Great Horse.
Pick a steady path home through the stars,
held by the cradling shoulders of the Shire.