This piece was written for D’Verse’s challenge this week to demonstrate turns in poetry – where a poem shifts gear or opens a window.
At her birth
she staggered on unfamiliar legs
while her mother licked her clean
and tried not to stand on her in forgetfulness
Soon she stood alone,
with a coat that waxed in spring
and waned in winter moon.
At the yearling sale she pranced,
unminded of her fetlocks
in the racing years.
In time, she ran her maiden,
romance in full stride when,
shifting in the running,
her stablemate grabbed the inside rail.
She took off in pursuit.
(Nothing cuts like an odds-fed whip
a furlong out from home.)
And then, snap!
“History”, her verdict went
and the vets screened the final shot.
Her blood soaked into the track
and into the knacker’s van
and she was gone.