First of all the hay is baled.
Home from school,
We fling onto the silken
Backs of our horses,
Bare legs slipping on
The smooth hides.
We canter around
Short-grassed fields,
Jumping bales - two
Sometimes three and
One being the hardest of all.
Our shadows grow long as
We caper and gallop up,
Down and around the once
Forbidden paddocks.
© Patricia Turner
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