In the middle of the rain soaked field
Surrounded by hoof printed mud,
Away from the bushes that shield
Him from the storm clouds that scud,
Stands a young foal; is he depressed?
His tail made heavy with burr
Is unable to flick the flies that infest
His matted, mud splattered fur.
His close cropped mane he once shook,
Is now short and stubby down his head.
Passers-by stop, tut and look
Past him to swans waiting for bread.
Neglected and forgotten, this young horse,
Who is in plain sight but rarely seen,
Knows no other life because
He’s ignorant of pleasure and meadows green.