The Long Hack Home

A Poem by W H Ogilvie

The wind in the woodland grieves,
The stars on a wet road gleam,
The beech-trees bare of leaves
Are weird as the trees of dream.
The white-crowned feet of the bay
And the white girths splashed with loam
Pass like a ghost of grey
On the long hack home.

A watch-dog barks at the farm,
A lamp in the window flares,
A night-bird calls in alarm
As into the dark he fares.
The moon swings over the thorn
And grins liks a trunkless gnome,
And weird wan thoughts are born
On the long hack home.

The bay goes short in his stride
And carries his lean head low,
The spur is close at his side,
Yet his stumbling step is slow.
On his flank the drying sweat,
On his neck the faded foam,
But his ears are forward set
On the long hack home.

But the longest lane must turn
And the longest day must end;
And the stable lanterns burn
And the well-known roofs befriend.
And who that would not ride,
And who that would not roam,
For a lodge gate open wide
On the long hack home?

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