Parading out in numbers, colours in patterns,
perched high in pride;
Long glossy manes flowing and tails swat,
strutting and trotting the way.
Thirty-nine line and turn, face the goal,
positioned and sprung.
Rope lifts, hooves hit in thunder,
at Aintree races.
Falls at the hedges, men embryo land,
relief as they both stand.
Towards Beaches brook, turf flies,
horses run free alongside.
The home straight beckons fast,
at fence thirteen.
The Chair, highest challenge yet,
as cheers rouse the air.
Tension mounts, thick in the atmosphere,
breaths are held tight.
Involuntary jockey moves on sofa edges,
in homes here and there.
Horses fall, less running the queue,
hooves pounding closer.
The finish line entices, come closer,
tired and breathless.
Shouts, calls, cheers, feet roar,
waves and betting slips.
Excitement escalades, names echo,
as a trio leads the way.
Disappointment at no shows,
sadness at injuries.
The pounding continues to conquer,
people punching with pride.
The last leg lasts a lifetime,
as time slows down.
The winner leads the way, victorious,
triumphant hands shake.
Ambiguous eyes watch, and wonder,
guilt at the fallen now gone.