About the Poem
About the poet
Tracey Herd is a poet who is concerned with perception and memory – in particular, how our...
They call it the look of eagles, that gaze beyond the skies.
You were marked from the start with your white star
and the band just above your left hind hoof
with three dots, one for each year on this earth.
You were drawn and shaded in with charcoal
but it is unlucky to call a racehorse “black”.
On your gravestone you are dark brown or bay.
This is not how you were supposed to go or when
although all you knew was how to run
and even when your leg had snapped, you ran
and ran and ran, your heart stronger than the fractured
limb which splintered like wood in the Belmont dirt.
Your jockey simply couldn’t pull you up although, God, he tried.
If any horse could have outrun death, my money
would have been on your dark head and you eyeballed
each other for a stretch, Foolish Pleasure running far ahead
in a race that would never really count.
You were buried close to where you finally stumbled to a halt,
your ebony nose pointed towards the finish line
in the infield at Belmont Park. You would never leave the track.
The evening turned as dark as your coat. As champions are,
you were buried whole, a huge, white shrouded mangled thing
where once a living horse had been, one who could outrun almost
No horse on earth could live with you, even from the first
few strides: every race run from the front, wire to wire.
A solitary red rose for inside your grave. It fell beside your head
before the ground filled up with soil again and lawn looked pristine.
It covered the white-shrouded beauty, still wearing her red,
embroidered blankets, perfectly smoothed. It still mattered
that you were immaculately turned out under the floodlight
for the final time. No-one wanted to leave you, alone. Farewell,
from Not in this World (Bloodaxe, 2015), © Tracey Herd 2015, used by permission of the author and the publisher
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