Displacement

The lead horse threw his shoe last night.
When last we saw, it was all right.
It appears to be no fault of his own,
and farrier is not at home.
No proof of pawing at the gate,
nor broken fence. Wires are straight.
The shoe is nowhere; Fate be foul.
We searched paddocks and corral,
still, found no trace of shiny plate
within the bedding churned in haste. 

That hoof is broken. Can we repair
the damage from unexpected tear,
when forced from hold by fate unknown?
This was not wear of walking stone.
The shoe, vanished, took wall, defaced.
Will clips be drawn or straps replace
the strength of missing tissue parts,
the white line that binds hoof to hearts?
Not laminitis, nor rot is found,
no trace of odor, nor color brown. 

Still, the horse is lame without
the shoe protecting equine, stout.
Not any horse, the lead of string,
palfrey on whom fortunes swing,
should stumble on his hoof of stubble.
Grazing now would surmount trouble.
A fraction of the inch each month
is all to expect of renaissance.
The horse of stature, and of might,
depends on hoof for fleet of flight. 

And shoe that left without a trace
has only worn steel to replace
the artistry of that which once
was pride of kings, as golden sconce.
What worth is steed without feet?
What worth is steed without feat?
Lead horse aside allows a colt
to come of age, to chance a bolt.
But, what of original, magnificent steed?
Time will heal and again he¡¯ll lead. 

C Taylor, Jr.
11/07/2002