Disdain Of A Mare For Her Colt

Note: For this exercise, I had to take the fourteen ending words of a Shakespearean sonnet from our textbook and reuse them in a sonnet of our own. Turns out it's really, really difficult to create something that makes any kind of sense when you're forced to reuse another poet's words at the end of your lines.

Mosquitoes the hammer, an anvil the sun.
I between them, my hatless, bald head, red.

Miserable and lathered: mare sorrel, colt dun.

Chasing a bee, the youngster flicks his long head.

Mare comes near me, takes the hay with a bite.

Humidity slaps me and leaves red on my cheeks.

Her colt bounds toward us. A mother's delight

For any mother but her. I dig out the treats.

Someone should see this. But no one would know

What to make of a mother who hates the sound

Of her son coming near. I turn and I go.

Dry crunch under feet. Desiccated ground.

I force them to be together. The nuzzles are rare.

To what can this mother's disdain compare?