A Shetland pony stoops
at the brackish end of Strand Loch,
her tresses tossing gnats away.
She sniffs sorrow in the wind,
her world is changing.
She lifts her eyes to the stone sky
as a fluttering
of black and white waders
She stares solemnly into the shallows,
catching a glimpse of plumage popping.
She counts crests bobbing in damp grass.
‘Not so many this year,’ she neighs,
dipping her head back to the water’s edge
as a bleak mist rolls in.