The Ground Is Just A Field Poem by Cathe Ferguson

The ground is just a field of never-ending green
like a ballpark or an acre; farmed, ploughed, and clean.
It’s a length of picket fencing, a crop of weeds well-trimmed.
Nothing but a plot of land to grow a boskage in.

Until that fateful moment when the world breathes in deep
and lets go with a hearty neigh, a champ, a snort, a leap.
That’s when the ground is music and not a field at all
but a score of orchestration by four legs; sixteen hands tall.

Then the posts of wooden fencing become planks of flesh and blood
that play the grass like drumsticks be it mare, gelding, or stud.
The wind upon the meadows is a blowing mane and tail
that gallops down the emerald hills and over glen and dale.

Yet when the day is over and the shadows settle down
and the horses, spent, and tired wander up the hill’s sweet crown,
the ground’s, again, a field, just a never-ending green;
A quiet, peaceful acre; farmed, ploughed, and clean.

(This was written in 2002)