Those Sundays
A welcoming shade slants far across
the ruffled air of the stable block,
where swallows wheel and nest no loss
with earthen love, from poll to dock.
I brush loose hair from around your girth,
as you nuzzle and lip for treats and more,
and I return to rake and scrape my worth
in wasted straw, then close the door.
The afternoon sun is now well formed,
thus I’ll take my leave of your bright joy,
while my chestnut beauty stands well adorned
in sweet-scented hay, my learning ploy.
She waits far behind, dressed in tack,
sweetheart, hear me: I will be back.
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