Rock Poetry

Nearly ready to win 

Early morning fresh salt air
two horses impatient for their work
with slight intrepidation I vault across my mount
my friend is up already, they twist and spin about.

I find my irons and loop my reins,
we jog towards the beach.
"I think we'll do five furlongs medium pace
we canter down we mustn't race".

The horses trot on then canter strong
I shorten my reins and hold him in.
Upsides my friend seems so very calm
"OK", I shout, "We'll turn them here"
Oh to relieve my aching arms.

The horses come back to the trot, then walk
each blowing, nostrils red inflamed.
We stop brief second then spin around
firmly on hocks they beat the ground.

The mighty power is a wonder felt,
of animal bred for speed and pace.
We gallop on almost touching sides
"Come on my son lengthen your stride."

The wind and noise this power beneath
is like no other sensation that man can feel,
my horse feels right, he feels so strong
he'll win a race before very long

"Pull up here, they've done their work."
I play the rein from side to side,
then give with my hands, he responds, he knows,
from gallop, trot then walk,
we stop, he snorts then blows.

We turn them round and walk into the sea
they cool their legs whilst walking free,
back towards the slip and rest,
I sit back, elated, feeling my best.

Jumping down, we take saddles off their backs
and walk them round to cool them down, then load them back into the van,
then drive the home for their corn and bran.

It's still so early, the sun just shows,
I drive back home for coffee and toast,
take off my boots and riding clothes,
go back to bed, hope nobody knows.



"Come on my son, lengthen your stride"
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