Jack Frost silvering the grass,

Crunching underfoot like glass,

Adding to a rider's woes,

Freezing fingers, numbing toes.

Steaming horses tread with care,

Warm breath misting in the air;

In line across a windswept hill

Where their master waits until -

In the gloom they surge and fade,

Strengths and weaknesses displayed,

Ghosts beneath a leaden sky,

One by one they pass him by.

At last - content - he turns away,

Planning for the coming day.

His charges follow on behind,

Like children...always on his mind.