Leaving my campsite one Sunday
with the daylight nearly gone,
in the scruffy field across the road
a procession strode quietly on.

A string of seven horses
walked towards a corner tree.
Quietly, full of purpose
and oblivious of me.

Three foals gambolled at the front - 
there was order, it was clear.
Their attentive mothers followed close
and a stallion brought up the rear.

In circular assembly beneath the tree
they stood facing out together.
Ready to face any enemy
or changes in the weather.

Now ghostly, and almost lost
wrapped in the coming night,
the seven horses settled down
and disappeared from my sight.

September 2003