The blunt fog lifts slowly.
I gently drum my fingers on the counter,
reminding myself of Lambourn,
the morning gallops

After this pint, the horses.
In these more antisocial times
I miss the smoke-filled warmth of the bar,
its slack, convivial nature;
a quiet word, a tip and a punt,
gamblers conspiring
in a shared and risky bet

But that was long ago,
before she left,
and now I look
ten years beyond myself,
a Turf Accountant gone to seed,

No legs for the distance
I stumble at the fences
my pride won’t let me mend,
and always seem to fade
at the turn for home