Horse Shoes. Poem by Douglas McClarty

Steel poles sometimes, hammered
Standing upright, almost ceremonial
Sodden boots trod damp soil measuring
The blacksmith provides the horses tools of war
The time is set for this ancient duel
Smoke smouldering fagged lips face each other
Some drink the devils brew, vessels tossed aside
The game begins, metal is held in each mans hand
Aiming, precision, tactics, then the clash of steel
No horses hoofs mark this battle ground.
Yet their cast offs are littered all around.
The victorious take their due prize of war
Lucky trophies, sometimes found, above their doors.