The tug and pull and snap of harness, the
tightening traces, the ringing jingle of
hardware as the horses shake their ponderous heads
waiting, pawing the fresh new mud, the earth
newly wakened from the dire throes of winter.
A few quiet, sternly uttered words from their Man,
"Whoa now, Bess, Maggs, steady on there."
They stand. Silent now, rock solid flesh and bone,
Bay and black, tails softly swishing, legs firmly planted
on the soil of the barn yard. Waiting.
The time has come. Ears swivel forward, as with a
lightly uttered "Gee-ap!" and the gentle slap
of reins on broad dark rumps, the great horses lean on
their souls, their hearts beating in their massive
strong chests. The leather of their collars groans,
creaking with protest at the strain.
The softening of the dawn light dissolves the
steady thud of heavy metal shoes on the
mellowing earth. A mourning dove coos sadly from
the gray weathered fencepost. The silver plow blade
slices the winter tired earth in twain. Cleanly
breaking the clods with his laced leather boots, head
up, inhaling the rich incense of the musk of
horse sweat, raw spice of newly turned soil, perfume of
apple blossoms. Feeling the sun's power on his face, the
farmer sighs contently.
Nice words. Great pictures. Not least because I've recently been thinking of buying a pair of heavy horses. Shires to be exact. If it ever happens, I'll certainly try hand ploughing. Although I doubt very much it'll go quite as smoothly as the above piece suggests. James.