The Old Mare

She is a beautiful old lady.

Even though she’s gone stiff in old age.

In days gone by, she was fiery.

But time makes bones old and forms a cage.

Her coat is still shining a deep bay.

Those big chocolate eyes still glitter.

Even though her mane has a few greys.

Those legs can still tear up an acre.

Twenty-five years she’s spent on this earth.

Even though she still enjoys her hacks.

I may have had to let out her girth,

it doesn’t hinder or hold her back.

Unlike in the school, where she’s a mule.

Dragging hooves, napping or refusing,

she hates it and shows her ridicule.

It is boringly agonising.

In the field, she’s a wondrous sight.

When she gallops across, head held high.

I just can’t let her overexcite,

she thinks she Is young and can still fly.

The lead mare, her subjects in their place.

Making sure the young always behave.

A heart of gold as long as their space

til’ annoyed; then she’ll make you a grave.

Her affection can turn opposite

absolutely female through and through.

But, an apple is her chocolate,

assures forgiveness is in view.