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page 24
Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings, Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings To see the horse in the next stall. Outside, the spangled cock did call To scattering grain that Martha flung. And many a time a mop was wrung By Susan ere the floor was clean. The harness-room, that busy scene, Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening Rings and bits with dips of whitening, Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups, Dumbing buckles of their chirrups By the touch of oily feathers. Some, with stag’s bones rubbed at leathers, Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove Saddle-linings to the stove. Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted Out of the yard, the passers snifft it, Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour Of horses’ stables and the savour Of saddle-paste and polish spirit Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit. The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves, Belted by girths of coloured weaves, Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls. One said, ‘My dad cured saddle galls, He called it Doctor Barton’s cure – Hog’s lard and borax, laid on pure.’ And others said, ‘Ge’ back, my son,’ ‘Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha’ done.’ ‘Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes He gives a rare pinch when he likes.’ ‘Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter.’ ‘I give ’em all sweet spit of nitre For that, myself: that sometimes cures.’ ‘Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours.’ They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes To keep the dust out of their throats. There came again and yet again The feed-box lid, the swish of grain, Or Joe’s boots stamping in the loft, The hay-fork’s stab and then the soft 4
page 25
Hay’s scratching slither down the shoot. Then with a thud some horse’s foot Stamped, and the gulping munch again Resumed its lippings at the grain. The road outside the inn was quiet Save for the poor, mad, restless pyat Hopping his hanging wicker-cage. No calmative of sleep or sage Will cure the fever to be free. He shook the wicker ceaselessly Now up, now down, but never out On wind-waves, being blown about, Looking for dead things good to eat. His cage was strewn with scattered wheat. At ten o’clock, the doctor’s lad Brought up his master’s hunting pad And put him in a stall, and leaned Against the stall, and sissed, and cleaned The port and cannons of his curb. He chewed a sprig of smelling herb. He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chid The silly things his master did. At twenty past, old Baldock strode His ploughman’s straddle down the road. An old man with a gaunt, burnt face. His eyes rapt back on some far place Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss In God’s world through the rags of this. He leaned upon a stake of ash Cut from a sapling: many a gash Was in his old, full-skirted coat. The twisted muscles in his throat Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord. His oaken face was seamed and gored; He halted by the inn and stared On that far bliss, that place prepared Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind. Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot’s Wynd, Drove up; and stopped to take a glass. ‘I hope they’ll gallop on my grass,’ 5

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Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings, Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings To see the horse in the next stall.

Outside, the spangled cock did call To scattering grain that Martha flung. And many a time a mop was wrung By Susan ere the floor was clean. The harness-room, that busy scene, Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening Rings and bits with dips of whitening, Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups, Dumbing buckles of their chirrups By the touch of oily feathers. Some, with stag’s bones rubbed at leathers, Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove Saddle-linings to the stove. Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted Out of the yard, the passers snifft it, Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour Of horses’ stables and the savour Of saddle-paste and polish spirit Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit. The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves, Belted by girths of coloured weaves, Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls. One said, ‘My dad cured saddle galls, He called it Doctor Barton’s cure – Hog’s lard and borax, laid on pure.’ And others said, ‘Ge’ back, my son,’ ‘Stand over, girl; now, girl, ha’ done.’ ‘Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes He gives a rare pinch when he likes.’ ‘Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter.’ ‘I give ’em all sweet spit of nitre For that, myself: that sometimes cures.’ ‘Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours.’ They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes To keep the dust out of their throats.

There came again and yet again The feed-box lid, the swish of grain, Or Joe’s boots stamping in the loft, The hay-fork’s stab and then the soft

4

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