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.