are on the jumper as he sails
Across each hurdle. Chestnut velveteen
Ripples like brandy. One thin shadow veils
The whitewashed posts, October's velvet green,
As, wed to one volition, horse and girl
Swing, in a web of looks and voices, rise
And plunge, and rise again. His forelegs curl
Beneath his chest. "Superb!" a woman cries.
And then: "Not quite!" His stumble, and her fall.
I hear a thud — the coda for this ride.
A little faint, I lean against the wall;
The clucking crowd has scuttled to her side:
"Not quite — not quite!" That final, thwarted leap,
And then the thud. I hear it in my sleep.
© 2009 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.