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.
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