Born on the ranch, nicknamed Sister
We broke her out to ride
Through open valleys to the hilltops
She never missed a stride.

The kids all learned to ride on her
Many years she left behind
Last year she bore a filly
Of her very kind.

Over the twenty-two years we had her
A mighty friendship grew
We knew when the time came to replace her
It wouldn’t be easy to do.

It was an early crisp March morning
Long before the break of day,
From the corral we heard the filly fussing
The mare so still she lay.

I thought about her spirit and strength
A horse like her was rare,
Something seemed to take my breath
To see her laying there.

It’s been awhile now that she’s been gone,
The memories won’t fade,
I think of all the miles she went
And the roundups that she made.

Her grave is in a sheltered grove
But it’s heaven where she’ll be,
Grazing on a lush ocean of green,
Galloping wild and free.

Sherrill Forsyth is a cowboy poet and retired rancher who now makes her home in Tompkins, Sask.