In every colour ‘neath the sun, they run
In kaleidoscopic bursts they come,
For a pot of gold the race is won.
In dashing silks of kings and queens, they gleam
From sapphire blue to emerald green,
Crimson, primrose, tangerine.
Or yellow stars on purple caps, perhaps,
May, even at small northern tracks,
Stand out in distant handicaps.
Yet the grandstand caps are shades of grey,
As workers stake their hard-earned pay,
While dressed as any other day.
In overcoats and scarves: so plain, restrained,
Dull uniforms that look the same,
True to form, their colour drained.
At the final thrust, the shouts grow loud,
A satin finish for the cloth-capped crowd,
Like a rainbow through a thundercloud.
(As a kid, my dad used to take me to the races at the tracks around the north – mainly Redcar but Catterick, Teesside Park, Sedgefield, Newcastle, Ripon, and Thirsk too. I was mesmerised by the spectacle of the jockeys’ multi-coloured silks, contrasting with the grey caps, coats and scarves of the punters. It felt like two worlds colliding)