Printable Version of Topic

MATESHIP

They were Bewitched and Bedazzled….Witch and Dazza if you must.
A pair of well matched Clydesdales in whom Jack had total trust.
Old Witchy fancied apples and most days she ate a few
but Dazza was a carrot bloke – munched the odd one or two.
They were both old and now retired; Jack had owned them for years.
Ergonomic lawn mowers. Hay burners without peers.
They'd done the hard yards in their day and withstood every test,
both held their own at local shows, were lauded as the best.



Last night a storm had whistled through and up there on the ridge
a huge Ironbark had fallen right across the trestle bridge
that led to upper pastures where Jack sometimes had to go,
to fetch down sheep and cattle to warmer pastures below.
The road was steep and winding, not a road, hardly a track.
His tractor wouldn’t make it. He’d rely on these two’s backs.
They’d once more wear the traces, heavy collars, metal hames
and he’d be sure to throw in some extra ropes and snigging chains.


Eagles were flying when they left, soaring on thermals cold.
A Boggabilla morning with a light frost so I was told,
and frost would cause a problem though that fact they couldn’t know
but a friendship beyond price would stand the test as events show.
They snigged the log and pulled it slow to the side of the track
across ground slick and slippery. On one side it dropped back
into a rocky gully , deep and dark with granite sides
where the force of running water had eroded small rock slides.

Old Witchy felt the ground beneath her back hoof start to go
and she threw her weight into the trace her uphill struggle slow.
Old Dazza got the message he was nimbler than she,
he took the strain and held her. Witchy fell onto her knees.
Jack sized the situation up real quick and cut the trace
and let the big log tumble o’er the edge into the race
of water flowing far below – then with a gentle hand
he grabbed old Witchy’s bridle and gave a calm command.

‘Hold hard Dazza. Hold hard’ he cried and he knew Dazza would
they’d a perfect understanding of each other as one should.
Though Dazza’s breath was coming hard his muscles took the strain,
till Jack got Witchy to her feet and on the road again.
A simple act of courage by one horse to his old mate
for she could have took him over – but he did not hesitate.
He never gave a thought to that, just did what must be done
and yet there’s those who still believe that animals are dumb.

Maureen Clifford ©
The Scribbly Bark Poet

http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/

MATESHIP

Two bays - Bewitched, Bedazzled….Witch and Dazza if you must.
A pair of well matched Clydesdales in whom Jack had total trust.
Old Witchy fancied apples and most days she ate a few
but Dazza was a carrot bloke – munched the odd one or two.
They were retired and both old now; by Jack owned many years.
His ergonomic lawn mowers. Hay burners without peers.
They'd done the hard yards in their day and withstood every test,
both held their own at local shows, were lauded as the best.

Bewitched was out of Moonlight Magic sired by Merlin's Son.
Bedazzled had a dad called Barry none recalled his Mum.
They were both bays, with feathers white both stood at eighteen hands
though Daz was broader through the chest by an extra hand-span.
They’d feet the size of dinner plates, both had temperaments sweet
and mouths as soft as velvet, whiskered muzzles that would greet
Jack every morning, whickering, then search pockets for sugar
Old Jack would say ‘Sod off you pair - you’re bloody greedy buggers.’

Last night a storm had whistled through and up there on the ridge
a huge Ironbark had fallen right across the trestle bridge
that led to upper pastures where Jack sometimes had to go,
to fetch down sheep and cattle to warmer pastures below.
The road was steep and winding, not a road, hardly a track.
His tractor wouldn’t make it. He’d rely on these two’s backs.
They’d once more wear the traces, heavy collars, metal hames
and he’d be sure to throw in extra ropes and snigging chains.

Eagles were flying when they left, soaring on thermals cold.
A Boggabilla morning with a light frost so 'twas told,
and frost would cause a problem though that fact they couldn’t know
but a friendship beyond price would stand the test as events show.
They snigged the log and pulled it slow to the side of the track
across ground slick and slippery. On one side it dropped back
into a rocky gully , deep and dark with granite sides
where the force of running water had eroded small rock slides.

Old Witchy felt the ground beneath her back hoof start to go
and she threw her weight into the trace her uphill struggle slow.
Old Dazza got the message he was nimbler than she,
he took the strain and held her. Witchy fell onto her knees.
Jack sized the situation up real quick and cut the trace
and let the big log tumble o’er the edge into the race
of water flowing far below – then with a gentle hand
he grabbed old Witchy’s bridle and gave a calm command.

‘Hold hard Dazza. Hold hard’ he cried and he knew Dazza would
they’d a perfect understanding of each other as one should.
Though Dazza’s breath was coming hard his muscles took the strain,
till Jack got Witchy to her feet and on the road again.
A simple act of courage by one horse to his old mate
for she could have took him over – but he did not hesitate.
He never gave a thought to that, just did what must be done
and yet there’s those who still believe that animals are dumb.

Maureen Clifford ©
The Scribbly Bark Poet