Come, let’s ride across The Ponderosa
On warm sunny morn summer ninety three,
Gallop down track on black Irish draught back,
Wind tears at my hair, loud hooves pound the ground,
My friend Guy and I join in with our kids
Saddled up in the centre of Sheffield,
We ride single file on roads out of town,
Who knew horses farted as much as they do?
Through Crookes Valley to open land, then back,
Feed apples and carrots to our ponies,
Then call in for croissants at Hunter’s Bar,
We’re back home before the Archers begins.
Read The Observer, drink fresh French coffee,
Some life, back in the last Millennium.
Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 5th February 2021.