for Andrew Watt, Farmer, New Deer

“Ye'd sic a hurl on him, as far's the gate?
Ah weel, he's foonert noo, an quate.”
A hard-vrocht haun, scrat-fu o girse an strae
Heistit me hine ower whin an dyke,
Ontil the braid back o' couthie Pegasus.

Horse-heich, the warld wis sma,
Masel the smaaest thing ava,
Thon fearsome feet, like muckle ashets,
Skitterin skirps o' dubs at ilkie stride.
Wids, parks, an clouds,
At ilkie dirdin doon,
Gaed showdin, side b'side.
The strang, warm, horse's smell
Brocht heezin midgies
Dancin roon his tail.

Syne, knottin baith neives
Ticht, intil his mane,
For jist ae span o' Time,
He wis a prince's stallion,
Neth a warrior Celt;
A dreamin bairnie,
On a brukken shellart