My Saddle

On cold Saturday mornings

Bright, sweet choirs sing

Sun floods over rolling hills

Cars roaring, horses stamping

An anxious bustle

It’s waiting for its moment

It’s black and gold and silver

Stacked, squashed and alone

In bitter cold, blank darkness

Frigid small door opens wide

Light pushes, struggles

Lively beams, golden rays dance

Picked up, cradled a few steps

Carefully loaded

Now at last the journey starts

On cold Saturday mornings

Bright, sweet choirs sing

My saddle is awoken