At 33, all hopes are idle

[millionreasons]

Great Escapes

Myself, I honour Rachel, quick and dark,
As lovely as a gypsy; and as sharp.
She found a spacious Sunday morning weighed
By the straw-haired boy who had waylaid
Her on the school bus, daily. For a while
She walked by the closed stable, tried to smile,
Then told him 'Goodbye!' curtly and at once
Saddled the pony. With no backward glance
She rode off briskly to the wet, deep hills
Where the tall blue cranesbill nods, raw whitehorn spills
Beside the gallop; while her sister, bent
By the fair boy and his fair-haired friend
Wondering which she should choose, stuffed lunch
Through wires at dozing rabbits in their hutch. 

Rachel's thirteen, the pony, lent. Say then
That bolts to joy aren't possible again,
That - at thirty-three - all hopes are idle.
'Of course,' I murmur, buckling on the bridle.

                                    Alison Brackenbury