Steed

Upon the mist‑clad moor a steadfast steed does tread,
His coat a midnight sable, eyes like polished jet.
He bears the knight through heather‑hued and bracken‑red,
With hooves that drum a rhythm on the earth‑soft met.

When dawn awakes the hills in amber, rose, and gold,
He snorts a plume of vapour, brave and unafraid,
A loyal companion, steadfast, bold, and old—
The very spirit of the wild, in horse‑array displayed.

So let the ballads sing of steeds that proudly run,
In British fields where legends’ hooves have shone.