The grass is brightly green.
We seven race each other up and down
Cutting the corners tight
Taking care to keep our horses from
stepping in one of the many holes
And from kicking one of the gravestones
planted firm in the field.
We canter, following the old stony rows:
a path corrugated with low mounds
As long as men are long.
Comes the expected reprimand –
"Let them rest!" – but for reply
our quick-tongued leader just laughs
And wheels her fierce pony.
As black as ravens are black,
he’s glossy with sweat but
would run for hours more
down the avenues of now uneasy slumber,
the worn stones mute and meek
nodding as we pass,
Hoofbeat rhythm shaking the earth
and those held in it:
A thundering, spirited cadence.
Beneath is the hard Carolina clay,
An inverted world of old damp tight
But here the grass is green.