Almost 50 years on I am now living the dream.
At ten years old, my eyes are fixed
as lines of black and shining flanks
trot proudly by, each one adorned
with gleaming tack and mirrored hooves,
and in their wake they leave behind
the heady smell of dung and sweat,
the sweetest smell that can exist,
it warmly fills the air
with each drawn breath I take.
A city child, my dreams consist
of manes and tails and velvet ears,
low whickers over wooden gates,
but now. . . fast forward forty years,
from city, metamorphosised
I stand with Jock this afternoon
and feel his breath upon my hand.
Now country-wise, I glance and see
the darkening skies, the changing hues,
and as he snorts and canters off,
I realise, sometimes, dreams come true.