He snuffles towards
pouches of water in the grass
and doesn't drink
when he finds them.
He twitches listlessly
at sappy grass stems and stands
stone still, his hanging head
caricatured with a scribble
of green whiskers.
Sometimes that head swings high,
ears cock - and he stares
down a long sound,
he stares and whinnies
for what never comes.
His eyes never close,
not in the heat of the day
when his leather lip droops and
he wears blinkers of flies.
At any time of the night
you hear him in his dark field
stamp the groung, stamp
the world down, waiting impatiently
for the light to break
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