(written after the Grand National)
Ahead of the field,
running wild but still with the pack,
little does she know she will not win
anything–her rider is way back,
unseated at the canal turn,
still kicking his tiny legs in the air.
She stretches out her neck,
and gallops on–a defiant hazard,
as clods of mud fly around,
no cutting whip or heel to scar her flanks,
striking out at her own pace,
into freedom’s strait.