NEWMARKET

The Merry Monarch called a tune which soon became a masterpiece

And anthems sprung and songs were sung of heroes, villains, victories won

Of heartbreak, scandal, fortunes lost…and deals done

Of blessed hooves on blessed turf; where thunder isn’t thunder

But a symphony on earth

And here on Suffolk’s vast expanse lies Newmarket, The Citadel; this chosen site   

Where back in 1666 our glorious sport took wing, and shone a light for Horse and Man

Yes, this is where it all began

From matches out on Racecourse Side, the message spread like rampant fire

And fuelled a primal urge to race; this somewhat unassuming place had launched a trend

A sport, a way of life; a neverend that feeds the dreams of dreamers still

And reaps the souls of those who thrive

On noble elegance and power; The Game, the thrill

Who make their way in hopeful Spring to Headquarters for Guineas week

To once again find comfort in familiar sights, familiar speak

The Rowley Mile, The Bushes and The Dip, The Rising Ground

The Brigadier, the wall of sound, the yesteryear

As diehards make comparisons with greats of yore

New Champions will stake their claims to join that pantheon of names

And we will pause to breathe it in, to feel its pulse once more

©Henry Birtles
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