There is something in the gaze of a horse
that touches us, and allows us to believe
that we know what they are thinking.
Something in their soft whinny and
snickering rumble that makes us want to protect them
from those who would do them wrong.
But somewhere, right now, a mare is standing
in a stall barely bigger than herself. Day in and day out.
Eternally in foal but never to know one.
Her pregnant urine harvested for tablets and creams
for ageing women, meno-pausing them on their journey through life.
Her foal an endless by product. Never to suckle.
Never to be taught how to graze on soft spring grass,
or to run from an imagined predator.
Never to whinny or snicker or roll or buck.
Just a disposable by product of an industry that remains
untouched by the gaze of a horse.