Heavy horses

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust 
On october?s day, towards evening 
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough 
Salt on a deep chest, seasoning 
Last of the line at an honest day?s toil 
Turning the deep sod under 
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone 
Flies at the nostrils plunder. 
 
The suffolk, the clydesdale, the percheron vie 
With the shire on his feathers floating 
Hauling soft timber into the dusk 
To bed on a warm straw coating. 
 
Heavy horses, move the land under me 
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free 
Now you?re down to the few 
And there?s no work to do 
The tractor?s on it?s way. 
 
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed 
To keep the old line going. 
And we?ll stand you abreast at the back of the woods 
Behind the young trees growing 
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth, 
You?re eighteen hands at the shoulder 
 
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry 
And the nights are seen to draw colder 
They?ll beg for your strength, your gentle power 
Your noble grace and your bearing 
And you?ll strain once again to the sound of the gulls 
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing. 
 
Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill 
Up into the cold wind facing 
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world 
Against the low sun racing 
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood 
A rein of polished leather 
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky 
Brewing heavy weather. 
 
Bring a song for the evening 
Clean brass to flash the dawn 
Across these acres glistening 
Like dew on a carpet lawn 
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping 
As the heavy horses thunder by 
To wake the dying city 
With the living horseman?s cry 
 
At once the old hands quicken --- 
Bring pick and wisp and curry comb --- 
Thrill to the sound of all 
The heavy horses coming home. 
 
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust 
On october?s day, towards evening 
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough 
Salt on a deep chest, seasoning 
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood 
A rein of polished leather 
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky 
Brewing heavy weather. 
 
Heavy horses, move the land under me 
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free 
Now you?re down to the few 
And there?s no work to do 
The tractor?s on it?s way.