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Our brood mare lying in the straw,
Foaling a colt in the early morn.
Now the weeds grow tall where he was born.
The tack shed with the sagging gate,
Is where I learned to sit and wait,
As my father caught his horses at dawn.
It's quiet now - the horses are gone.
For just a moment I could smell it again,
That good horse smell in the old catch pen,
Same warm smell on both young and old.
You can't go back - the horses are sold.
It was the scene of a trailer fight,
Between Dad and Slippers - oh what a sight,
The rope took off part of his thumb.
Just maybe now, I should not have come.
At Codding's place was my first ride,
My father walking close beside,
He carved out memories for me his son.
Where he kept horses now there are none.
The boyhood horses each had a hole,
That left a mark upon my sole.
At Codding's Place was my first ride,
My father walking close beside.
In another place and another time,
On a different farm that I call Mine,
We keep horses on that place,
A paint, a pinto and a bally face.
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