Just had this published in 'The Highland Times' a magazine for HPEC members. It tells of Jock's last night.

His Final Night

No turning back, decision made,
take out the drip that all this day
has stopped him finding comfort in the straw,
his folding legs and drawn out sigh
shout silently his pain and sadness,
I cannot watch him suffer any more.
The vet returns to coax him up again,
a stoic effort this, his final hour
still trying to please. He follows me
slow motion steps -stop-go- in jerky time,
a pause, a hop, then on once more
till finally we reach the corner of the yard
in darkness, the place where he will die.
His death was quick, too fast to call
as heavy bulk hit hard the concrete floor,
repeat his name so many times
and all the while still stroking, stroking,
I take his final warmth for something to hold onto
and in return, to guide him in the darkness,
I give him the light from my soul.

Janis Clark

Bankrupt

My husband and I are not talking,
in fact, he's gone off in a rage,
the credit card bill came this morning
consisting of more than one page.

Well, I needed a new pair of jodphurs,
and then saw those new, lightweight hats,
the horses were due to be wormed soon
so I thought I would buy some of that.

Then I noticed a 10% discount
was given if so much was spent,
it seemed to be such a good offer,
so how could a person relent?

So, I added a high wither numnah,
oh, and also a two-tone lead rope,
and because it is always so useful,
I threw in a bar of tack soap.

I couldn't resist the new gel pads,
(don't want him to get a sore back),
the haynets, the weigh tape, the girth guards
and also a small saddle rack.

Guess I'd better just tear up my plastic,
then pay off the bill in due course,
any money you hve will soon vanish,
the day that you buy your own horse.

Highland (2)

Heavy in weight and
Intelligence, yet always
Gentle, these sturdy
Handsome ponies (thoug sometimes
Lazy) are loved for their versatility:
Able to turn a hoof to anything.
Nothing phases them, our
Dependable, hairy best friends.

Highland (1)

h Hungry (always) and
Inclined to put on weight just by
Gazing at grass, a
Highland's main aim in
Life is to maintain
A full stomach, then afterwards
Nothing beats a wee
Doze in the sun. . . . . . zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

On joining the ranks of horse owners, I made a whole new group of friends who have become a very great part of my life. We are all ‘middle-aged’ women who spend a lot of time together along with our equine pals. One event that has become a tradition for us each year is to ride to our friend, Mhairi’s farm, where we keep our horses for a couple of days before riding back to the stables. The horses seem to enjoy this mini-break as much as we do. This poem describes the ride in 2003.

The Ride To LochLetter

In blistering heat, the posse set off,
Six riders (and Bridie and Dave),
Destination – LochLetter – for two days of fun
In the midst of the summer heat wave.
Pat practised ‘Parelli’ wherever she could,
Kitted out like a dude on a ranch,
Till Harry decided to do his own thing,
Veering off to trot under a branch.
The mares, on a mission, were walking ahead,
Both striding out nicely through Drum,
In unusual good humour, young Tansy remained
If those geldings stayed clear of her bum!
Armed with ‘throw-away’ cameras, the ride had to stop
For numerous staged photo calls,
‘Still, this is much better,’ the horses agreed,
‘Then spending all day in the stalls.’
Further on, in the bracken, the sun still beat down,
And Teasle had started to itch,
Hot and sticky, he tried to back up to seek shade,
Almost dumping poor Jill in a ditch.
Now up on Drumclune, their hoofbeats were heard
On the road that was dusty and long,
Amid all the blether and laughter and flies,
This ‘six legged’ band plodded on.
And then, in the distance, LochLetter in sight,
The equines all gave silent cheer,
Jock whickered to Tally, ‘When we get to your house,
Any chance of a nice ice-cold beer?’
Mhairi’s Shetlands were waiting to greet this new herd,
While Mo Chridh and Ginny looked on,
Jock snorted to Teasle, ‘Which one do you like?’
His thoughts were wine, women and song.
Now the journey was over, the horses could rest,
While their owners cleaned tack and made dinner,
And all in agreement, declared during tea,
The ride to LochLetter a winner!

Horse Passion

Horse Passion

The final deal - The bringing home

The building trust - The watchful eye

The munching hay - The monthly bills

The peaceful doze - The gentle strength

The tilted hoof - The metal shoes

The summer shows - The red rosette

The dusty trails - The hateful flies

The playful nudge - The thrilling speed

The mucking out - The cleaning tack

The muddy legs - The thorough groom

The busy yard - The empty house

The inner calm - The passing years

The slowing gait - The dulling eye

The quiet vet - The breaking heart.

Partnerships

Long, lean and lithe,

or stocky, solid, short.

A woman's choice of horse (like men)

may not reflect her true ideal,

but yet, against the odds,

such partnerships stay strong.

While sometimes, she who first appears

set in a perfect match for many years

will cast aside the faithful friend,

and with eyes full of lustful greed,

she'll gain a more athletic steed,

whose youthful body better suits

her ever-changing, fickle, selfish needs

Just a Riding School Pony

Like many people, I learned to ride at a riding school. I was given ten lessons for my 38th birthday and joined a beginners' class alongside my eldest daughter, then aged six. From that point on there was no turning back. I couldn't devour the information fast enough. I wanted to know everything there was to know about riding and asked my instructor if she thought I would be competent after the ten lessons! She replied solemnly that it takes a lifetime to be competent and even then there is still much to learn. I still cringe at my naivety.

Fifteen years later, horses are an important part of my life and I spend most of my free time at the stables where I first learned to ride. With increasing knowledge, however, I have also an uncomfortable awareness of just how much we ask of these riding-school ponies in order that we can satisfy our own pleasure. Although most are well cared for physically, I believe that many are living a life of misery. Depending on their personalities, they either become dull and lazy in an effort to save themselves from the lack of stimulation, or they gain the reputation of being difficult by resorting to nipping and scowling at anyone within reach.

This poem is dedicated to Meeling, whose photograph is at the top of this section. She was a very elderly, gentle mare and she taught me the very basics with a willingness that I then assumed was the norm for all horses.

Brought in and fed at 8.00, she stands

tied in her stall, head bowed down low,

the saddle slapped across her back

and grubby tack, all signs of things she cannot know,

She is a riding-school pony,

In luxury boxes across the way

grand horses gleam and shine and wait

while loving owners preen and clean them

safe in the knowledge that their own fate

Is not that of a riding-school pony.

Now tugged, untied, 'You are so STIFF',

passive she waits while heavy bellied boy

climbs on and grabs the reins with concrete hands

jagging soft flesh - to him - just a toy

And not a riding school pony.

Like circus beasts, they shuffle nose to tail,

while high above a heron soars and flies

then plunges into pools of shimmering light,

routine results in dull, unseeing eyes,

Those of a riding-school pony.

Carousel

Once a pony is mine, it has a home for life although I realise that life has a way of throwing up all sorts of unexpected happenings so nothing can ever be guaranteed. There will sometimes be circumstances when keeping the horse will be impossible. However, I hate to think of the thousands of horses and ponies that change hands every week just because they no longer 'suit' the owner or because a child has 'lost' interest. This poem says it all.

Cordelia wanted a pony,

Equestrian ads were got,

Eight potentials identified,

All expensive but - so what?

Driving round the countryside,

With Ma and Pa in tow,

Seven soon discounted,

Now only one to go.

A little chestnut pony,

With sparkle in its eyes,

A coat like silk and stunning looks

It came as no surprise

That this one was the pony

Cordelia now chose,

The deal was done, the cheque made out,

A change of name to 'Rose'.

Five hours in the trailer

- A Bateson, top of range -

Rose nibbled on the haynet,

Her life about to change.

At last the ramp was lowered,

Destination: Manor Farm,

Cordelia stood there waiting,

The saddle in her arms.

Both Ma and Pa were beaming

With such parental pride,

The reins so tight they made Rose smile

On this her first 'new' ride.

Then after many hours

Of hands that did not yield,

The pony was at last turned out

Into an empty field.

Some little girls are fickle,

They drift from friend to friend,

Now Rose was left all by herself

At times, for days on end.

From 'Rose' to 'Fern' to 'Lavender'

Unwanted or outgrown,

The little chestnut pony

Was moved from home to home.

Our ponies lives depend on us,

Their future and their past,

So if you are about to buy,

PLEASE, make your home the last.

Equine Lifeline

My mind, like a room full of mechanical toys

with no off switch, is soothed in a second by

the sight of evening sun on dappled flanks.

My heart, that continues to run marathons

long after crossing the finish line, is quietened by

the rhythm of munched hay on a winter's night.

My veins that are chocked with caffeine

lying thick in the blood, are freed by

a whicker of recognition at known footsteps.

On days such as these in my workplace

when everything drives me insane,

I reach for my own equine lifeline

and find inner calm once again.

Living the dream

JOCK of CRADLEHALL BOWMORE MAJOR ISLAY MIST

Almost 50 years on I am now living the dream.

DREAMS

At ten years old, my eyes are fixed

as lines of black and shining flanks

trot proudly by, each one adorned

with gleaming tack and mirrored hooves,

and in their wake they leave behind

the heady smell of dung and sweat,

the sweetest smell that can exist,

it warmly fills the air

with each drawn breath I take.

A city child, my dreams consist

of manes and tails and velvet ears,

low whickers over wooden gates,

but now. . . fast forward forty years,

from city, metamorphosised

I stand with Jock this afternoon

and feel his breath upon my hand.

Now country-wise, I glance and see

the darkening skies, the changing hues,

and as he snorts and canters off,

I realise, sometimes, dreams come true.