The Horses of War

Oct 3 2011

They shoot horses

before they’re done.

An animal born to run

is not worth much

on 3 good legs.

Cannot suffer to stand,

will die

on its side

panting.

Even the thoroughbred

jazz dancer of horses, lean and lithe

cannot improvise on this;

a bullet to the head

efficient, quick.

The draught horses

who seem always to come in pairs

were magnificent creatures,

their gentle eyes

massive flanks.

Heavy plumes of breath

exhaled in two fierce streams,

turning to steam

in autumn air.

They graze, at ease in their pasture;

not skittish, but wary enough

as befits a creature of flight.

I admire

their quiet patience, dogged strength

dutifully plodding on.

But we have forgotten

the horses of war,

who slogged through mud

hauled armour, guns,

stood erect and stoic

in the soaking snow

of the Somme, Verdun, Flanders.

Obedient servants of men,

blissfully unaware

of our foolish passions,

king, and country, and flag.

But not oblivious

to fear and panic.

On battlefields, succumbing slowly,

their blood and bones

mixed with the flesh of soldiers

shredded by guns.

Who would come to be honoured

unknown.

A hayride, in a crisp October,

the rustle of leaves, and clomp-clomp-clomp

the sweet aroma of hay.

I love how the harness creaks,

leather on leather, saddle-soft.

And horses

who will be put-out to pasture

when the work is over

their days are done.

And all because

we do not shoot

the horses we love.