In the stillness of the evening,
I often think of you, old horse.
As I stare out across the meadow,
reminiscing causing deep remorse.
I see your head and tail held high,
and your mane flowing in the wind.
I thought I heard you nicker softly,
You were a buddy and special friend.
I can still see you raise your head,
as my voice carried across the pasture.
Your ears came up, pointed forward,
We were friends, not horse and master.
I vision you starting out at a trot,
pick up the canter at great speed.
I've never seen anything so beautiful,
watching you gallop my special steed.
You followed me closely to the barn,
I'd brush you until you were clean.
You really had a mischievous streak,
still young at heart even at eighteen.
Your muscles were in the right places,
and so were all of your spots of course.
There was nothing ordinary about you,
I miss you, my special old paint horse.
Copyright © 1990 Jo Ann Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.