ABPA — The Australian Bush Poets Association Inc.

Shadows on the Track

© Catherine Lee

Winner, 2024 Bronze Spur Award, Camooweal Qld.

You put me on a pedestal, sang praises to my name -
the foal from Mystic Treasure, she who’d paved the way to fame
(my mother, darling of the track). But then my turn to rise,
to make the trainers beam with admiration in their eyes.
With garland round my neck, a trophy, flowers at my feet,
I felt secure, adored, fulfilled, my happiness complete.
The words you whispered, music to alert and twitching ears:
‘magnificent’; ‘unrivalled champ’; ‘a stock not seen in years.’

Until my turn to run arrived I’d rest within my stall,
observe with curiosity the strangeness of it all.
Excitement always filled the air, electric with the strain
of hope and precious dollars on the line to lose or gain.
And though I didn’t fully grasp the rigid tension there,
it seemed enough to know I was the object of your care.
I shivered not with fear but expectations of the crowd,
determined I would justify your faith and make you proud.

We’d undergo inspection just to check we’d made the grade,
then walk towards the circle for a stately grand parade.
There expert eyes assessed us to predict the coming race,
discussing all their options for the wagers they would place
whilst sparkling liquid flowed, and well-dressed ladies caused a stir
in most alarming clothes and hats of feathers, lace or fur.
But horses claimed the focus, what the crowd had come to see,
admiring coats, the structure of our bones, our pedigree.

The sights and smells remain with me, cacophony of sound,
the scent of perfume, reek of sweat and dung from all around.
I still recall the blinkers, earmuffs, brightly coloured kit
we wore at every meet, can almost feel the dreaded bit,
the gentle sheepskin nose roll and the pacifier’s mesh,
descending hood, and firm protective bonds around my flesh.
We stood for countless photos while enthusiastic queues
of fervent punters gathered, staking cash to win or lose.

You led us out, positioned us correctly in a row.
With empty course ahead we stood impatient, primed to go.
Then once in place that sudden hush, a momentary wait,
till finally the sudden crack, the rupture of the gate!
The thrill, anticipation, danger, sheer adrenalin
took over as I did my job, resolving I would win.
The eagerness to make you happy, fear that I might trip,
combined to spur me on despite my hatred of the whip.

Although in truth that life would not have been my favoured choice,
I did the best I could, for horses don’t possess a voice.
I raced the wind and won, stood undisputed in my reign,
then looked towards retirement with a joy I could not feign.
My just reward for steadfast dedication all those years,
the freedom meted out for such illustrious careers.
I pictured verdant fields, cool breezes, sunlight in my eyes -
due recompense for injuries, sweet liberty my prize.

But what is this? I’m limping round an unfamiliar ring
while men are yelling coldly for another type of thing.
Comparing, bidding - then we’re sold for ludicrous cheap price!
I feel a premonition as my blood is turned to ice.
Confused and frantic, searching for your reassuring smile,
I witness only callous faces, taste my rising bile.
Conveyed along the road with others, frightened to the core,
I hear no soft words spoken and our fate remains unsure.

And now confined to cramped and putrid pen, a filthy mess,
brutality inflicted, in unthinkable distress,
I suck the crib and whinny, call to anyone who’ll heed.
‘This can’t be right! Your thoroughbred’s tormented and in need!’
Where once my black coat glistened there are open, ugly sores.
My mane is grossly tattered. I’m imprisoned here indoors.
I’m bashed with sticks and sworn at, suffer beatings to the head,
and worse, electric goads control me, fill my heart with dread!

I watch with trepidation such unspeakable abuse.
A lame horse bashed repeatedly - for what, I can’t deduce.
Another tries to reach the door, is shot in the attempt
in front of twenty others. I am seething with contempt.
A sick one’s killed, then dragged across the loosely gravelled drive,
her throat slashed as awareness dawns she might be still alive!
A panicked runner breaks his neck colliding with the gate.
Blood spurts, his legs are paddling - he surrenders to his fate.

I notice former rivals from my seasons on the track.
Their brands are clearly marked upon each damp, dishevelled back.
There’s Kiwi’s Katch and Scarlet Duchess, Banjo’s Pride, The Muse -
swift champions who won awards and garnered rave reviews.
Despair consumes us, terror drowns our hopes. We were deceived!
We stagger under torture we could never have conceived.
With promises in tatters, we all wonder where you’ve gone,
and if you have the slightest clue about what’s going on.

My legs you once caressed so gently, murmuring of love
are trembling in a vile contraption strung from up above.
These men will feed the dogs with us. It’s out of our control,
each ruthless worker lacking any kindness in his soul.
They’re not like those we knew before, when feted for our breed
and lineage, fine muscle tone, our manners, movement, speed
we made you rich with loyal effort, thought we were a team.
Those memories of acclamation seem a distant dream.

And now the Pale Horse cometh. I can smell its foetid breath,
and comprehend the rider is that one whose name is Death.
He glowers with a baffling malice. Grief compounds my pain.
Unutterable questions scream inside my anguished brain.
The hoofbeats echo loudly. Both my past and present merge.
Defeat, submission, sorrow and bewilderment converge.
My final tears, with endless darkness looming from his hand,
for broken-hearted creatures who can never understand.


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