A race horse lives,
Indeed is bred and cherished,
To run and to gallop and to lead the field,
To leap improbable heights
And depths,
And above all this to win,

Not to fall at the first,
Or the second,
Or the third fourth and fifth,
They are creatures of
Air and thunder,
Of flying hooves and sods of earth,

Sometimes indeed they fall,
Then rise riderless
And confused,
Unsure where to go or
Indeed how fast
Or even indeed why?

But these are gathered
Gently from the field,
And returned via expensive
Wagons to the stable,
Where lads and girls and vets
Are waiting to get them right,

A veritabe deluge of love
And care and expertise
Awaits these amazing equine
Flights of fancy,
Whatever their mistakes,
Whoever they threw from the saddle,

That partnership between
Jockey and horse breeds
Love and forgiveness
No matter the error,
No matter the pain of heart
Or soul,

But what of the horse
That breaks a leg,
That does not rise
But screams too long,
Too loud?
Alas that horse however fine,

That horse is always shot,