In the morning the light crawled through the sky
He raised his bronze neck to appraise the shape
'Will the sun rise ever, and if so, why?'
He thought as he stretched, and began to traipse
He walked alone then spotted his first son
Darting like a whisper by the brown fence
Whenever he ran it seemed he won
All his trophies at his father's expense
Further on was his sister who was lame
Her eyes were lovely like a rose in bloom
But through her gait he could see her shame
With regret he nodded – she knew well her doom
He turned back, sighing upward in remorse
So sad yet so gay, our dying race horse
No comments:
Post a Comment