Around and around, up and down.
Their manes flying in the still air.
Screams of joy as riders take their turns,
Squealing with delight as the horses quicken their pace,
To the sound of the maniacal mechanical organ grinder.
Wooden hearts in wooden chests.
Carved out saddles, worn with use.
Golden swirling spires ascend to the heavens,
Impales in horse flesh,
Holding the gallopers in place,
Lest they try to escape.
Hand painted eyes gaze longingly at the grass beyond the fairground.
Imprisoned in the bright flashing lights.
Their mad gallop ends, if only for a moment,
And children climb down,
Leaving sticky, candyfloss handprints on the worn-out leather reins.
Others quickly take their place and the headlong race begins again …
Until bedtime calls the latecomers.
Finally, the wooden horses can stop their race.
There will be no more children,
Queuing eagerly for their turn.
No more races yet to run.
And the horses will finally be put out to grass.
They dream of a happy hunting ground,
Where children never go,
Where the wind blows the grass like an ocean,
Wave upon wave.
Their fate is the knackers yard,
Just like the other horses,
Or left to rot in some sad warehouse,
Waiting to be dismantled,
But nobody had the heart to complete the job,
And put them out of their misery.