Poetry
The Piebald
THE fires were red by the caravans ; The circus men stooped over their pans. The piebald horse came up to nuzzle Against my breast with his spotted muzzle.
His flank was rubbed by the waggon chain; His shoulder raw where the weight had lain, But he arched his neck to my greeting, proudly; And nickered low while the men talked loudly.
We stood in the gloaming, he and I, While the stars came out in the evening sky. A lone owl hooted, a bat flew over, The breath of the horse was sweet with clover, I patted his neck and I stroked his ears ; His eyes were soft in the dusk like deer's The eyes of a horse can always hold me, And this was the tale that his brown eyes told me.
Nothing to do with the dusty road And a shOulder-gall and an aching load, But a tale of triumph—a gallant story Of glittering lights and a path of glory.
Of cantering circles around the ring With a measured step to the music's swing ; Of cracking whips and of clownish wrangles And a fairy rider in silk and spangles.
I know as he quivered a nostril wide That he wished me to learn of his nights of pride When, bitted back to his silver trapping, He went in a tumult of cheers and clapping.
I forgot the shame of his shoulder-gall,
I heard the hoofs to the canvas call.
I saw him proud in the sawdust striding, Glamour around him and Beauty riding.
WILL H. OGILVIE.
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