Heavy Horses

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening.
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the rlough
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, chasting the bone
Flies at the nostris plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Persheron vie
with the Shire on his feather floating
Hauting soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, wore the land under me
Behind the plough gliding *** sliping and sliding free.
Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do
The traktor's on it's 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 you 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
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
in the wake of the deep ploug, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In still battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing.

Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horses and a tumbing sky
Brewing heavy weather.