Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
with the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
and the nights are seen to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
your noble grace and your bearing
world
gliding
seasoning
coming
grace
eighteen
against
chained
girth
flint
flies
flash
stiff
harness
filly
feathers
facing
evening
embossed
sound
tumbling
hauling
nights
hands
gulls
dripped
dying
thrill
feather
brass
strength
sliding
sleeping
thunder
oaken
going
clean
chest
sweat
acres
brewing
abreast
leather
again
coating
plunder
turning
carpet
chasing
battle
horse
shoulder
growing
young
standing
racing
floating
colder
tanks
timber
bearing
heavy
honest
under
gentle
horses
wheel
living
strain
noble
nostrils
percheron
across
plough
suffolk
polished
pounding
power
proud
quicken
sharing
barons
glistening
shire
towards
slipping
clydesdale
stallion
stand
bring
straw
these
towns
behind
curry
trees
weather
veins
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