The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and main;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again
Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps
Two dozen distances surficed
To fable them : faint afternoons
Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps,
Whereby their names were artificed
To inlay faded, classic Junes -
Silks at the start : against the sky
Numbers and parasols : outside,
Squadrons of empty cars, and heat,
And littered grass : then the long cry
Hanging unhushed till it subside
To stop-press columns on the street.
Do memories plague their ears like flies?
They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows.
Summer by summer all stole away,
The starting-gates, the crowd and cries -
All but the unmolesting meadows.
Almanacked, their names live; they
Have slipped their names, and stand at ease,
Or gallop for what must be joy,
And not a fieldglass sees them home,
Or curious stop-watch prophesies :
Only the grooms, and the grooms boy,
With bridles in the evening come.
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Comments
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Larkin - At Grass
From guest Jane (contact)
A wonderfull poemthat is both bleak and optimistic in its commentary on ageing and becoming worthless in the eyes of society. I wish people would take care with their spelling though. -
Typos
From guest Doug Wilson (contact)
A wonderful poem slightly spoiled by typos: Verse 1 - line 3 - mane Verse 2 - line 2 - sufficed -
A new poem and a new author to me. Goody, goody
A delightful description of two retired racehorses. Phil Larkin, with an economy of words has described vividly the both how the horses are now and how they were. I also like the fact that he has left them gently living on undisturbed.
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