Meet At Eleven
C
Cicely Fox Smith
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They were here on the side
Of the downs a few minutes ago . . .
Hounds dappled and pied,
And riders pink-coated and black,
And people on foot holding back
Their bobbery pack
On leads,
All sizes and breeds,
The laughter and chatter
As neighbour greets neighbour, the sound
Of the whip’s voice berating a hound -
“Hi, Raffle!
Hi, Ranger!” -
That has strayed into danger
From the ribbon-tailed kicker;
The creaking of leather,
The clink of a snaffle,
A whiff of cigar smoke, a whicker
From a fidgety mare, then the chatter
Of a late-coming rider. And so
They moved off and were gone
Altogether.
And there’s only
The lonely
And brown
Long curver of the down,
Rabbit-pitted, sheep-shorn,
Crescent cut where the horses have passed
And anon
The distant
Insistent
Thin blast
Of the horn . . .
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