Horses Of The Fields Poem by Mike Tonkin

They have been fed and watered,
And are ready for work.
They stand patiently
And wait for the day to begin.
They know the ploughman’s step,
Their heads turn,
Eyes follow him and see
The sugar in his hand, they
Snuffle at it and then eat.
They are massive framed
And gentle, these horses of
The fields, and they amble to
The plough and shuffle into
Place to be harnessed, .
The leather gleams in the
Clear morning air, and they
Paw the ground and nod
Their heads as though
Talking together..
The ploughman is alone,
That is how he likes it
For forty years he has
Driven the plough,
He loves his horses,
And ploughing is his art.
The horses stand perfectly
Still as he sets the share and
The coulter then
As they move down the
Field, the harnesses jingle,
And the horse brasses
Chink.and the furrow horse
Walks neatly in the furrow.
Three beings at work,
They move as one.
The ploughman
Walks steadying the
Plough with his hands
His whole being is
Watchful so that each
Furrow is perfect, the soil
Sharp-angled, and smooth.
At midday they rest,
A pie and ale
For the ploughman
And oats for the horses,
Then on again into the
Afternoon, trampling the earth.
The day is tired now
The light red with evening,
A breeze blows
Them homeward, and the sky
Is full of birds coming in to roost.
They are groomed and fed,
They stand ruminating, their
Tails swishing to drive off
The insects that are busy
Biting.
Their day is done.








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