A poem

A poem by the poet Michael McCarthy, a friend of my mother’s.

It is one I love, the last poem in the collection ‘At the Races’.

Last Will and T.

And to you my high horse, I leave
This original saddle, the stirrups thrown in
for luck, as well as the rest of the tack.
And after you have galloped off, I leave
the echo of your hooves to the heather
and what’s left of the morning air
to the ducks in the water-lilied lake.

And I leave the ring of my doorbell
to the empty room, to the stained carpet
where Charley knocked over the soup
when he got drunk on emptiness
until he was full of light. To the rest
I leave the benefit of the doubt
Now and at the hour of my death


Posted on January 4, 2017, in Horse racing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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