Coney Isle Flight

On the road to Coney Island ten horsemen walk in line
And the air resounds to clockwork sounds as hooves beat out the time
They move as one in the summer sun all tuned to a single beat
And nothing's heard but crying seabirds and the rhythm of horses' feet.

In the shadow of Ben Bulban, they trot to a faster call
And the gentle tense of a heightened sense runs through the horses all
And now there are flecks on the animals' necks of sweat from the searing sun
As riders sit with a firmer bit their pulses quicker run.

On the tide free beach at Strandhill the smell of the sea commands
And bridles strain with a tighter rein gripped in perspiring hands
Now ears are cocked as hands are locked while horse and rider wait
With matching need of man and steed to breach the starting gate.

All eyes are on Coney Island as the leader gives a shout
With sudden surge and common urge ten horsemen gallop out
The pent-up moves of horses' hooves on sea and sand unleash
As the forty feet of our equine fleet thunder across the reach.

But within the sound a world is found where horse and man are one
And tiptoe speed is all you need in the rhythm of the run
As you quicken the pace the wind in your face is mixed with a briny spray
And you fly like a bird in the headlong herd as you skim the tidal way.

On the shore at Coney Island ten spirits move in line
And the ghostly glide of the endless ride transcends our space and time
The seagulls scream at this daytime dream unable to reconcile
The higher plain of man and mane who occupy their Isle.

And if you should go to Strandhill in the light of a wakening day
When the morning mist by the sun is kissed so it slowly fades away
You'll see when its fine a distant line of horsemen, single file
As they gently glide over sand and tide on the shores of Coney Isle.

© Declan Whitney 2017