Rocking Horse Blues. (Revised).

My rocking horse lived out in the garden.
He loved the summer months, the scented grasses,
The willow trees swaying gentle curtains,
The many coloured flowers, brilliant like small suns.
But when the winter came, he had no coat, no cover,
He stood out in the snow, his circus finery
Fading swiftly in the London gloom.
Soon he was just a pile of wood and plaster,
His crimson saddle a patch of tattered leather
Lost among the scattered leaves and branches
That fell to earth in the autumn squalls.
My jaunty rocking horse remained outside
Because there was no space in my bedroom,
And daddy did not want to waste tarpaulin
To save a toy he was too large to play on;
It was, after all, not his rocking horse.
Now sixty years have passed, and I am grey and grumpy,
But every now and then I dream my little horse
Longing for warm fires and hoof deep carpets
As he flaked to brittle dust beneath the stars.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 17th.- 19th.2018.