Old Horses never Die, They just Fade Away
So I stand and whinny at the gate now;
Although I have hay, and water in my tank,
The thing I long for seems so late now,
My stall is clean to keep from being dank.
Why is it you are not here in the saddle?
Why is my feed just a dull, daily act?
When I look for attention they skedaddle;
When children grow up, time alone is fact.
Remember days when time spent in the round pen
Brought either praise or a word to correct,
And, after, a ride through field or woodland,
A loosened rein light-hearted to expect.
I recall the time when the fit of the collar,
The harness, the wagon, training, work and fun,
The warning for those not used to us not to holler,
To avoid a runaway—I knew better—or their ride is done.
There was a time when these were for me;
My mane was combed, my coat brushed to a sheen.
Pride was expressed over ribbon and trophy.
Now, there is seldom a face to be seen.
Oh, hi! I see you’ve come to use me;
My eyes brighten up, ears forward perk.
You’ll mount and pat me with reins handled loosely.
I’ll forget I ever avoided this as work.
©07/26/2011 Carol Morfitt