It all comes to a head,
sloped in confident stability,
glistening polearm in the sun;
trembling with each primal rhythm,
an apocalypse in hoof beats.

Echoed close like slow dance,
a warrior’s heart.
A tiny muscle fortified by steel,
beneath so much flimsy flesh,
in a hot dark space – cramped,
with fear, excitement, intimidation.
Awkward, boisterous things,
louder than the quiet duty beneath.

The motley pair gallop towards their mirrored end,
while the crowd pours forth celebration,
enough to drown in if murder were not their intent.