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THE INDUSTRY HORSES
4. The RSPCA Horse
The rspca horse
Just stands in the paddocks starving,
In the wind & rain, his little back rug rag taggle,
There are a lot of lonely horses out in valleys with mountain backdrops,
With one report of cruelty a day, of neglected horses
Without the grooming equipment to keep the coats clean & healthy,
Without the herd for company, without the independence
To leave the property, without the work needed to survive,
Without the purpose of what it means to be a horse,
Many people, particularly the young, would like to own a horse or pony,
But how much time, hard work & money, is involved in looking after them properly,
A suitable paddock, or supplementary feed if the grass in their paddock is low,
Shelter from weather, or a horse that just stands in the fog, tail spoilt,
Knotty, thick & still, hanging like bracken,
Vaccinated then left to rot in the sodden hectare, ribs like broken fencing,
Killing the will from the inside, that the inspector overlooks,
When the horse is discovered, standing there, knee deep
In mud, thin, undernourished, forgotten,
A toss of the mane, a stamp & a snort, to compartmentalisation,
To kilometres of other segregated horses, never to be nudged or run with,
The solitary rspca horse at the end of its tether, at the end of the line,
Soon to be sold off as pet food, a bad investment, timely, big, bigger than
The paddocks, as big as a heart or the country, these displaced horses,
Financial difficulties, too big for money, remember horses,
Herd bred & herd born they should not be kept on their own,
& keeping horses tethered in stables does not work,
Remember them in a herd, for the last time, on the ramps, at the knackeries.
Wild horse to ridden horse to rocking horse,
& those slippery merry-go-round horses, the reins of real leather & real
Strands of hair, now face to face with your own trumped-up version of nature,
The wilderness knocked out with a chisel,
They are as wooden as the carnival music sliding up & down the poles,
As empty as the big white swans with the seats inside, & those mirrors
Rotating in the middle, where the ticket collector stands
Smoking, as money grabbing & hollow as the rides,
You are left floundering, on the way home, without the strength to carry you
Through your crisis, before your anxiety begins, & again you must grab for the reins,
Of 6,000 year ago horses that rushed the plains in herds, before the undergrowth,
Streams & forests, before the night set in on horses,
The industrial age of the horse, the technological age of the horse,
Horses are receding, as a physical animal they are effectively invisible,
Their grace & muscular power, their independence & will to life,
The joy of wind in the gallop, the landscape they move through, their story,
We are losing everything of horses. |
