On one misty winter’s morning
A work rider rode out alone
On The Gliding Mount, like a king
Who struts and trots upon his throne.
Snowdrops began to blossom in
The frost, but all else was barren
As they strode past an empty inn
Down to a beach where grey herons
Fed their young ones in a small flock,
Whilst night surfers made their way home
As savage waves crashed against rocks
And smeared the surface with their foam.
The two galloped as barely a
Hoofprint was made in the firm sand,
Along the whole stretch of the bay
Past an chimerical grandstand.
In a cave the horses entered
One by one round the parade ring,
Until they all reached the centre
And drank from the fresh water spring.
Punters mingled out on the dunes
Where the bookies set up their stalls
And young ones strolled holding balloons
Walking along the dikes and walls.
The whip struck like a magic wand
With gentle, rapid vibrations,
The Gliding Mount’s legs chimed in tune
And danced lightly to the loud cheer.
The work rider loosened his reins
And quickly opened up a lead,
A phantom field gave chase in vain
To cling to their high cruising speed.
Soon the sea calmed and the wind died,
The punters vanished in the fog,
Drowned out until only a faint
Echo of hoof prints could be heard.
On the same misty path they rode,
One yawned as steam rose from his back,
Wondering when his time would come,
The other, unchanged and measured,
Knew not of what his partner saw.
© 2017 AGP