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At Eighty Spanker, Sharper, Prince and Bob Were horses that my father drove Through rain, through clay, down car-free roads The workless tramped, for his first job. He told me as we waited, bored, Outside my dozing mother’s ward Bob kicked him sailing down the yard. Bob also bolted from the tree, Dragged with clanked chain. The
closest shave Came when he swayed back, peacefully, Legs tapping Spanker’s sun-warm side, Back to the hay, from dinner break. The great grey Belgian reared beside, Horse, cart, crashed toppling like a tree. The shaft’s kink saved his battered sides. Six Irish shearers dragged him free. A bungalow’s quiet bedroom took Breath neither weight nor war could rob. Out of the dark with patient feet Came Spanker, Sharper, Prince and Bob. Alison Brackenbury
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