War horse

(A poem for the horses who are so often forgotten, not only in stories, but our lives too)


His sides are heaving

Drenched with sweat

Yet he is still breathing

He hasn't fallen yet

When we think of wars

Fought so many years ago

Our hearts go out to soldiers

But the horses are left on their own

Surely they deserve to be

Praised and blessed as well

Surely they have earned their places

In the stories that we tell

His sides are heaving

Drenched with sweat

Yet he is still breathing

He hasn't fallen yet

Taken from his mother

And laden on the cart

The loss that he experiences

Like a rip through the heart

Sent to a different place

With new rules and regulations

Training from dawn to night

New places and new dimensions

Crowded from place to place

Herded up like sheep

Amid the noises going on

No-one would hear his weep

The battle is to start soon

Frenzied practise and the showing

Yet even this busy life

Won't stop his tears from flowing

His sides are heaving

Drenched in sweat

Yet he is still breathing

He hasn't fallen yet

Anticipation for a fight

The crows call down for blood and life

Air full of emotion and tenseness

You could have cut it with a knife

Galloping like hell

Across the deserted no-man's land

Towards the readied enemies

Under the commander's forceful hand

Faster, faster, he's told to go

While his flag flies out in the wind

Dancing like he would be

If he was free to roam, not sinned

His sides are heaving

Drenched in sweat

Yet he is still breathing

He hasn't fallen yet

Seeing others fall around him

Dropping down like wilted flowers

The pain, the anguish, the suffering

Yet the fluttering flag above still towers

With a horn cry, the enemy calls

For reinforcements and for aid

The message of war is very clear:

To kill or be the slayed

But as his master kicks and yells

He slips upon a broken sword

And falls down upon the ground

While the others keep surging forwards

His sides are heaving

Drenched in sweat

Yet he is still breathing

He hasn't died yet

Breath comes up in hurried gasps

While blood falls down like a waterfall

From his hooves, eyes, neck and withers

And death slowly begins to pull

His breathing slows its irregular pattern

And his sides stop their shaking

Death calls him and he closes his eyes

There shall not be his waking

His body lies, a mangled mess