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Sentinel firs stained by the fumes of urban exhaust
await torrential rain to bathe each herringbone pine
and disturb the secretive bull finch from its enveloping cover.
Stone walls crafted by skill and care ride the contours of hills
herding aimless sheep, accommodating miniature fauna
hiding them from the keen eyed hawk.
Bobbing heads of trotting riders shake equine bones beneath
saddle, reins of leather, metal bit between the teeth.
Such are the sights of the hour in which a father sits,
aware of the fading car battery as love songs enter his thoughts.
This is the hour each week father brings his daughter to riding lessons.
A weekly homage of tranquillity in all seasons
To see the age old harmony of rider and horse
Where a gentle kind of love is shared.

Miller