our chapter

eleven names have always hearkened back
to what the books of history have said
mute tones of sepia and white and black
accented with blue checks or devil’s red
illuminated manuscripts of old
bring illustrated tales of hero steeds
though yellowed leaves fall short of making bold
the full extent of witnessing those deeds
our generation clung to history
the only path to that elusive prize
resigned to think that we would never see
the pinnacle of sport through our own eyes
three days, five weeks have coloured the next page
a Pharoah for our place and for our age

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