Their carousel has been pulled down -
Replaced by a roller-coaster -
The frame demolished, the steeds removed.
Children worry where they've gone...
The best of the horses have gone to dealers
A few to seedy old junk shops.
The broken ones were thrown on scrap-heaps -
To be incinerated,
Their day being done.
When night-time comes, acrid smoke
Swirls up and up, high above
Accompanied by some spectral 'Wurlitzer'
Playing waltzes and songs of love.
Suddenly, smoke is joined by lights
Circling like a glittering crown.
Then, below them, growing louder,
Neighing is heard along the ground.
An equestrian deity has claimed its own.
The carousel horses are galloping home -
Manes a-flying, heads held high -
Beyond the iridescent sky.
sad tale, end of life for what was once a glorious sight I can. Imagine the acrid smell of the pyre
well done .
Well done John there are some powerfully evocative images in this poem. I like the idea that those that went out to the scrap left in a blaze of glory, while those deemed more desirable are gathering dust.
In the last verse, 'equestrian' should read 'equine'. - Blame it on PD!