The Dreams Of The Rocking-Horse - Miserabilia

Just an ornament now.
Too old, too dusty, too fragile
To cope with the grabbing hands,
The kicking legs.
Still, it holds pride of place;
An inheritance, an elder:
Its wise and sage eyes,
Having witnessed the
Growing of a family
From the sprouts of
Still glitter with
The youth which inspired it.

A timeless design.
Even before the ugly factories
Which spewed forth its
Sagging brothers and sisters
Came blundering into existence,
Its lithe form set the minds
Of children on fire -
And ours, crafted lovingly,
Is the teacher of balance,
Of the swooping feeling
Between back and forth -
A tame throwback
To the beginnings of

It will outlive us;
The confines of our home,
The trappings of
Glossy home-décor. 

It belongs to childhood,
And the wild and varying planes
Of imagination,
Where it is free to canter,
Its eyes glassy,
Not from the glaze
Of senility,
Or the swimming of misery,
But misting over with the
Tides of fantasy.

For who says the child
Atop the rocking-horse
Is the only one who dreams? 

The End

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