Blessing himself with his apron,
the leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,
he pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits

the smoke slow-turning from his mouth,
for the mare to be led from the field to the yard
and the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.

She smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,
careful not to look her in the eye as he runs his hand
the length of her neck, checking for dust on the lintels.

Folding her back leg with one arm, he leans into her flank
like a man putting his shoulder to a knackered car,
catches the hoof between his knees

as if it's just fallen from a table,
cups her fetlock and bends,
a romantic lead dropping to the lips of his lover.

Then the close work begins: cutting moon-sliver clippings,
excavating the arrow head of her frog,
filing at the sole and branding on a shoe

in an apparition of smoke,
three nails gritted between his teeth,
a seamstress pinning the dress of the bride.
Placing his tools in their beds,
he gives her a slap and watches her leave,
awkward in her new shoes, walking on strange ground.

The sound of his steel, biting at her heels.