15 April 2012
Boot leather squeaks and brushes on ribs, As men take up rein and clutch upon whips. Muscles contract as the silence is broken, And horses leap forward as the gates spring wide open. Hooves pound the track as manes and tails fly, And nostrils are flared as heels contact sides. The first hurdle looms and the beasts all charge on, But as they soar through the air, a fall stops the fun. Muscles, sinew and bone, all are weak to the crash, And three horses lie injured, or dead, in a flash. A great grey mare struggles up to her feet, But her leg won't support her, she falls in defeat. Another horse, black this time, rolls on the ground, His jockey is crushed, and is laying face down. And sadly this is the fate, of jockeys and beasts, Turned from bright flames, Into cold sacks of meat.
(This poem is written for all the horses and jockeys that have died during The Grand National.)
A Day At The Races • Opuss № I