| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
|
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Contest >> ID #664070 |
| |||||||||||||
|
The shadow of a conductor’s baton
falls across the carefully orchestrated concerto of Saratoga stallions... falls over racecourse soil soft as moss sonata, falls upon the rhythm of a valiantly galloped arpeggio, falls with the resonant reminder to reach a winning pitch, falls at the top of the stretch, tangling into sudden stumble, snapping string on antique equine instrument. The tempo is broken. A grandstand chorale quits the Ode to Joy, transposing, minor, into Requiem as if directed by sudden, distant sirens. Levitated quietly onto gentle stranger’s swinging stretchers, horse and rider harmonize - an effortless, metronomed coda won equally by each in fated photo finish.
© Copyright 2003 winklett (UN: winklett at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
winklett has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |