Stamping, snorting, ears flicking backwards, he’s listening. Mane dark as treacle but a brilliant white star and three knee-high white socks. Three white feet, don’t buy him, the old horseman’s rhyme warned.
With these troublesome feet and a huge heart, we’d cleared the coloured poles and shared so many triumphs. Rosettes and the memories still fresh – those victory laps and cheering crowds.
Today, I recall these glories aloud as I groom him, noting that swelling hock. I saddle him and trotting stiffly he arches his neck and still thinks he’s a star. I let him believe it.
With these troublesome feet and a huge heart, we’d cleared the coloured poles and shared so many triumphs. Rosettes and the memories still fresh – those victory laps and cheering crowds.
Today, I recall these glories aloud as I groom him, noting that swelling hock. I saddle him and trotting stiffly he arches his neck and still thinks he’s a star. I let him believe it.
