When Barns Start Blossoming

“They’ve all gone to bed now, it’s all right”

The old mare nickers in the night.

She sighs, quite weary, nibble some hay.

This was, she thinks, the longest day.

People all worried, anxious faces.

They keep waiting; the mare just paces.

Their calendars have all been duly marked,

But the spirit of birth has not embarked.

The old mare watches the house lights dim.

The world is silent---time to begin.

The barn is hushed, as a church in prayer,

With the golden aura of hay-scented air.

The old mare knows, and on her side,

She’s caught in the grip of a mighty tide.

And now, burst free to struggle, to stand

Trembling, wet, awkward, GRAND!

A gangling, grappling, gorgeous foal.

A baritone with fuzzy poll.

A din of voices and the lantern’s glare,

Swinging shadows….”Look, it’s here!”

A joyous circle, sleepy eyed,

Applauds the foal at the old mare’s side.

“A filly? A colt?” “Well, you’d better check.”

“Look at those hocks! Get a load of that neck!”

She noses her baby, a bit chargrinece.

Says a laughing voice, “Okay, you win.”

The folks file out with a kin-folk awe,

As peace descends on the darkened stall.

It’s once again the time of birth,

When barns start blossoming

With foals on earth.

                                                                        Author unknown

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