pony club teens

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  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….

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