Hooves hurl havoc on heathland.
Manes and tails whirl with the wind.
Their wide nostrils snort
As the horses cavort
Plumed perfect as fishes are finned.
They rollick and roll in a whirlpool –
Palomino, pistachio, pink.
They fight with delight
As the day becomes night
And the sky turns from paper to ink.
They rise with the sun in the morning.
They canter and caper and prance.
Not they compliant
These Genoese giants
Whose glee you can see at a glance.
They throb like the waves of the ocean.
They shudder with joyous content.
They wrestle and writhe
So blissfully blithe
Then slump down when evening is spent.
They don’t stop ’til sunlight is over
To retire to their crushed-bracken byres.
But make no mistake
They’ll revive at daybreak
With that furious ferment of fire.