Tuesday, March 12, 2013


Thoroughbreds are the great rivers of heart and soul....sometimes to the point where fire and oblivion must meet.  Love them for sure, respect them always.  Dark Ivy left life at Beecher's Brook in the 1987 Grand National, Aintree.

For Dark Ivy


Blew cold and dark for all to bear,

Of mist and sheltered faces;

The hair stood high in veiled defense,

A proper day for races.


A heroes race this National,

A chase for gold and glory;

A danger sought, a risk fulfilled,

With age, a grand old story.


The horses know the test to come,

Much smarter than we think;

A finger points -- the flag goes down,

Tis time to ride the brink.


Death will lurk at every fence,

Its vacant face appealing;

Mouths take hold of nervous hands,

Each seeks a spot worth stealing.


The first fence looms in no regard,

For horse it’s now or never;

Take no chances here me boys,

Don’t try to sport the clever.


Three go down to kiss the earth,

The gamers gallop on,

Impatience paid a price today,

As odds be far too long.


To Beecher’s Brook the mob descends,

Three chestnuts and a gray;

Sticks are cutting madly now,

The devil joins the fray.


Still fresh and jumping bold for sure,

The four attack the wall,

Three will touch the earth again,

The fourth will get the call.


The gray goes down with little hope,

A fire burned so lively,

But flames upon the wind may be,

As frail as dear Dark Ivy.


But fields go on with neigh regard,

The thunder fades politely,

Such threads are thin for winners too,

A tear for dear Dark Ivy.


                                                                                  A. Allan Juell, 1987
{From my days as a hopeless romantic; born of the wrong century -- seeking forever a Renaissance for my wandering, chivalrous soul.}

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