He goes for his morning walk,
with his ambling, enthusiastic gait;
he knows he’s lucky, and sunshine kisses his hair -
not yet grey, barely greying. He of fortunate fate,
makes his way over the field, calmly,
unharmed, green grass nipping his heels, and late
summer flowers bow to him. The sheep watch curiously,
then defer to the master of the estate.
The children whoop and shout at him,
their parents pulling them away, telling them not to touch;
he has a hunch, that while they don’t know of his
former glory, they know he’s lucky, and that’ll be enough.
The gentle amber-orange of dawn brings
a breeze across his skin, and by the mauve ribbons of dusk
he returns to home comforts, where the nightingale sings,
and rest in his warm hovel, the corners edged with cobwebs and dust.
The rumblings on the road behind the hedges
he has grown used to; though he doesn’t know what they do.
He doesn’t see the panting jockeys, the hollering crowds,
the thundering hooves pounding, manes flying true.
He’s lucky, to be ignorant, of what lies in wait for his kin,
for the fatal sin of silence, a fate few masters would particularly rue.
But they do not walk in his skin, nor scoop his flesh from a tin,
and his tail swishes merrily as he walks down his lonely avenue