The stage was set,
on that bright sunny afternoon,
As the sun danced through wafer thin clouds,
spreading god’s boon.
The benches were polished,
And they were shined to sparkling clean,
Gorgeous women and handsome men,
Graced them with pride and sheen.
The lush green racetrack,
Was a sight to watch,
The lanes were marked brightly,
with stripes of white.
The clipped colts and mare,
were all raring to go,
The bloodstock, the chestnut,
the brumby, the mount,
All ready for the show.
And amongst the crowd,
there stood a bronco,
a wild untamed horse,
grazing away from the row,
The jockeys lined up,
With square faced emotions in dearth,
checking one last time,
the blinkers, the saddles and the girth.
The betters put their money,
Some to win and some for fun,
Exacta, quinella, trifecta,
All bets were hinged on the run.
And then the gun was shot,
The horses zoomed past,
Crossing the barrier stalls,
Like breaking away from a cast.
The galloping sound was rhythmic,
Unlike the pounding of better’s heart,
As the cobs careen through,
The twelve furlong chart.
The race was done,
And the curtain was drawn,
Some made money,
Few lost their crown,
While the people went on to their next fancy thing,
The horses would need a month to recover and reconvene.
Not sure if those horses had any fun,
If the reins had words,
They would tell a story of their own.
Copyright © Shantanu Baruah