ST MICHAELS MOUNT

The great day dawned by popular demand,

The first day of the first race meet to run in this fair land.

And many more to come no doubt

to the joy of many a stable tout.

With pious thoughts and pounding heart

St Michael led his charger ‘Grace’

Champing at the bit towards the start.

God would see him past the post -

The righteous in first place.

Unknown to him though, God had other plans

And he would have a nasty fall from Grace.

So with a mighty roar the shout went up and off they went at speed.

St Michael clinging gamely, to his snorting, galloping steed.

White robe flowing out behind, beard flapping in his face.

Eyes ablaze with manic missionary zeal

He slashed the flanks with sharpened spur protruding from his heel.

Now grace she was a jumper and she jumped with power and pace

But she was getting left behind in this particular race.

Each soaring leap she lost another yard.

Bugger! thought Michael this is bloody hard.

Like the ground on which he fell
Head first.

Dragged along all tangled in the rein.
God what’s that smell?
Something's burst.

Ah! the pain.

And as he struggled loose, bruised and with a broken knee

Grace she went on jumping, rider-less and free.

In her own time, in her own space,

the only jumper in the first flat race.

© Ben Corde 2012