At her birth

she staggered on unfamiliar legs

while her mother licked her clean

and tried not to stand on her in forgetfulness

or fatigue.

Soon she stood alone,

with a coat that waxed in spring

and waned in winter moon.

At the yearling sale she pranced,

nostrils flared,

unminded of her fetlocks

in the racing years.

In time, she ran her maiden,

romance in full stride when,

shifting in the running,

her stablemate grabbed the inside rail.

She took off in pursuit.

(Nothing cuts like an odds-fed whip

a furlong out from home.)

And then, snap!

“History”, her verdict went

and the vets screened the final shot.

Her blood soaked into the track

and into the knackers van

and she was gone.