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.