Nibbling my proffered carrot with prehensile lips,
you bow that great head of yours in gratitude
and I stare into the cloudy cobalt of your eye,
finger your muzzle’s velvetiness,
note each different grunt and snort, the silken rasp
of tail-hairs when you lash out against a fly.
I drink in your dimensions, those goblin ears thick
with furry tufts, swivelling on their stems,
the brassy neigh of pleasure when the van
draws up into the yard. I study the bony plates
of your face working in tune with the cyclical crunch
of your jaws on a mouthful of hay;
I map the little nicks and scars of horse-box lore,
adore your neat-shaved boxer’s poll –
then, with a sudden clang of shoe on stone
you turn away to slake your thirst.
Come back Winston, I implore.
Don’t leave me here with my incompetence.
– Annie Freud