The Bridle

I run my fingers down bumps,
bends and buckles. It twists and
turns joining metal and
leather into one.

The coiled up contraption is heavy to lift.

I can still hear her boots clomp
along the concrete.
The waterproof coat bustles
against her bosom.

And the bridle in her hand jingle-jangles.

Sometimes I jangled too.
Sometimes wet cheeks were
calmed against masses
of mangled mane.

Child-like anticipation.

My mother lifting the leather.
Easing it onto a mossy poll,
gently pushing its ears aside,
loosening straps, smoothing hairs.

Two wild-domesticated animals stronger than me.

Long ago the clip-clop
sounds resonated through stables.
Reins were snatched from me as
I cried over bruises, breaks and bumps.

"Straight back on the horse," it barks.

That metal and leather collision,
from fire and heat cooled
into place. Restricting
straps and buckles.

They lie idle ten years on.