Blowing Home at Warrenton / Douglas Lees photo
‘Saddleford Crossroads at half-past eleven,’
Only last month, it would seem, we were there,
Rising so early to get there by seven,
Rubbing our hands in the chill morning air.
Time must have flown by, for that was September.
Horses half fit, and the country quite blind,
Details of every run since, we remember,
Sorrows and joys of each day call to mind.
Days when we found the first moment in cover,
Others drew blank ’til the late afternoon;
Dusting a cub in the dew-spangled clover;
Killing our fox by the light of the moon.
Crossing the river four times in one morning,
Over the race course—a fast little spell;
Going like smoke, and not heeding a warning;
Taking a toss, and a mud-bath as well.
Gallops that fizzled out all in a hurry;
Seven-mile points, and a casualty list;
Hounds running mute from the find to the worry;
Chiming like bells in the rain and the mist.
Memories only, alas, for the reason
Everything ends, and the end it is here;
‘Half-past eleven to finish the season,’
Rings like a knell in the fox-hunter’s ear.
Posted March 8, 2018