Horses by Andrew Shephard

I pass them daily,

two old maids in a field

named Magic and Paris.

Can it be my moods and their bearing

are synchronised

with each season?

Summer, contented, they swish tails

on close cropped grass,

disdainful of dogs, tolerant of puppies.

In autumn, the mournful season,

they loom vastly from the fog

like lorries on the M62.

Huddled in winter,

the beasts of the field close ranks,

rugged-up, muttering and stamping.

But in spring, bright spring,

reminded of girlish madness,

they burst wildly through hawthorn hedges.