Horseshoe
The
spade bit harshly down into the surface
Turning
back the dry crust of the earth
To
reveal a peatier blackness beneath
The
gash growing wider as I worked the ground
I
hit the damned thing hard enough
A
sudden clang of metal hitting metal
A solid
and unyielding object
Jarring
both wrist and knee
Provoking
a flurry of curses
Dirt-encrusted,
I pulled it up
Disengaged
it from the soil
That
had clasped it close interred
Abandoned,
or lost, long ago
The
jagged, rusted surface harsh against my fingers
Bent
out of shape, nail-impaled
The
holes clogged and solid
Yet
still a horseshoe
And
I thought about the foot that had held it
The
living flesh upon the hoof
The
toe, the quarter, the heel
The
weight borne upon the limb
The
tendons and ligaments and tissues
The
keratin structure that met the metal
The
cornified material that meant that man
Could
ride upon his back
Or
give him the grip required
To
let him pull the cart or plough
And
how he had probably worked upon this ground
Toiled
to earn his daily oats
And
I could see the farrier in the blacksmith’s yard
The
hot-bellowed forge-fire behind him
The
anvil, the pincers and the hammer
The
nippers and the knife
The
clincher and the rasp
His
protective leather apron
Spread
between his legs
And
the sweat beaded upon his brow
The
spread of his mighty shoulders
As
he sought to pull the horse
To
where he wanted him
But
now this long-buried thing
This
damaged, crumpled crescent
Is
but a modern curiosity
Residue
of a different world
An
age of hard rustic labour
An
old talismanic, folkloric object
That
might symbolise good luck
Or
at least provide a welcome break
From
the back-breaking task of digging
No comments:
Post a Comment