Slight the scent of wax-polished leather,
equine royalty stand reluctantly tethered,
sweet dunged-straw in distant stalls,
annoucements on tinny speakers call.
Girls command horses, fifteen hands high,
their skin-tight jodhpurs make grown men sigh:
blond-hair, blush cheeks, such snug jackets;
wild eyed horses rear, what neighing racket!
Pony club teens, reckless joy riders,
luck or providence protection providers,
they whizz past on storm-driven mounts,
challenge, not safety, taken into account.
Clock tower tolls twelve, imitates Big Ben,
horses judged by bulbous, bowler-hatted men;
po-faced riders, gamine pretty or plump,
gallantly they gallop, canter, or jump.
Clear round competitions, clapping crowds,
holding onto reins, proprietors proud;
other exhibitors exchange winks knowing,
their mounts buff-brushed, sheen sun glowing.
Hand lifted hats arrest equine attention,
hooves tamp turf, shit spoils any pretension,
picture perfect snap, impatient tails wave;
rural accents, pipe smoke, farmyard aftershave,
Bored horses peek over worn half doors,
verbless horses whinny, primal urges gnaw,
dark cobbled corridors, dung plaster-pasted,
hay haze seen, oaten scent almost tasted….