Rik George writes

The Carousel

The palomino swan-coach pair 
and bay horse and black horse all are still. 
They stand with the appaloosa mare, 
nostrils flared and hooves held high, 
poised on the silent carousel. 
The sallow people walking by 
darken the mirrors with their despair. 
They hunch their shoulders against the snow. 
They have no magic of the eye 
to see the horses waiting there 
to ride the golden poles. When they go, 
we see the mirrors shimmering, 
the horses prancing, eyes aglow, 
and, beckoning, the golden ring.


The Blue Racer -- James Homer Brown