Le Cortège...

Cobblestone had propensity to be snared by rusted shoes. One could hear the Clydesdale murmuring in pain, the sharp, scraping sound as each hoof slapped down on the stones 'neath its u-shaped soles, bending awkwardly slanted at the knee, writhing, silently, forward in stride. Yet no one paid much mind except for its worthy counterpart, leather strapped, by his side, suffering from equal strain. And, so goes, the proverbial 'caisson rolling... along', for the likes of Hayes Buchanan and Coolidge of executive privilege in office and death, passing their boyhood stomping-grounds for a final, silent curtain call, as tradition respected, demanded before a 'New Deal' creating new jobs... and smooth blacktop; back when horses were iron, struggling for miles long o'er breaks, and hills as if they'd been bred for Capriole Equestrian! Knees bent...head held high, carrying wood boxes of pine, oak and cherry in uniformed stride when summoned by death of a Commander In Chief, summoned for funeral plans, a cortege- an honour grandeur down the street to the Crosses at Arlington, rows of white, and where all stop to Rest. ©Frank James Ryan Jr/FjR MMXX All Rights Reserved