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      THE  BRIDLE RING


Tall machinery thundered,   tractors trailed

                        red dust,

            Wheat bowed heavy headed on the

                        blade,

A glint in standing stubble,   crusted,   stained

                        with rust,

            Snatched quickly,   treasured closely,

                        secretly surveyed.

 

 

The scrap of time worn metal,   a bridle chain

                        and ring,

            Lay oddly cold and heavy on the

                        hand.

All engines silenced swiftly,   a soft breeze

                        swelled to bring

            A strange,   hushed golden dreaming o'er

                        the land.

 

 

Came the horses proudly,   necks arched,   great

                        shoulders gleaming,

            Eager hearts bent bravely to the weight

                        of cart and plough.

Feathered fetlocks flaunted,   dark hides damp

                        and steaming,

            Across Time's endless threshold,   from

                        the Past into the Now.

 

 

A stately,   soundless passage,   faint fragrance

                        drifted sweetly,

            Field flowers plaited,   scattered,   in the

                        fall of silken mane

The rude roar of the header,   the teams were

                        gone completely.

            But shadowed hoofprints crumbled in the

                        earth amidst the grain.