Watching the pomp and circumstance surrounding Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral provoked conflicting emotions. On the one hand, the monarchy is ridiculous and offensive to American notions of freedom. I watch the story of the UK hiring out King Charles 3’s ironing of his shoelaces and putting of the toothpaste on his brush with horror. Hence, our independence. On the other hand, the custom and traditions bring the Brits together in a way that our divided system of government cannot match in these polarized times.
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October’s day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoningLast of the line at an honest day’s toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
With the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the duskTo bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding — slipping and sliding freeNow you’re down to the few
And there’s no work to do
The tractor’s on its way.Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
To keep the old line going.
And we’ll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
Behind the young trees growingTo hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
And your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
And the nights are seen to draw colderThey’ll beg for your strength, your gentle power
Your noble grace and your bearing
And you’ll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the worldAgainst the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling skyBrewing heavy weather.
Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
Across these acres glistening
Like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
As the heavy horses thunder by
To wake the dying city
With the living horseman’s cry
At once the old hands quicken —
Bring pick and wisp and curry comb —
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.
Jethro Tull, Heavy Horses
RIP QE2.
