DESERT ORCHID'S GOLD
The day grows old, as dusk sets in
A shroud of darkness falls
As deep in thought beside the fire
I close my eyes my mind recalls
It was Cheltenham on a winter’s day
The going soft, the outlook grey
We’d gathered there, chilled to the bone
To pay tribute to the horse we’d made our own
The rains they lashed upon the Hill
The People looked forlorn
For in our hearts, to much dismay
We thought he’d be withdrawn
And on that windswept park we stood
In wild anticipation
To see this race, The Gold Cup
Prove the best horse in the nation
The tapes went up and off they set
Desert Orchid lead the pack
But thoughts of doubts danced in our heads
For this was not his track
When Carvill’s Hill went tumbling
All the Irish on the course
Put their faith in Desert Orchid
To weather their remorse
Ten Plus, a fine young Chaser
Built of old fashioned mould
Took up the pace with three to go
So fleet of foot and jumping bold
But this was not to be his day
As we all sadly know
For at this fence, Fulke Walwyn’s steed
Was dealt fate’s cruellest blow
Desert Orchid hit the front
But from the crowd there came a groan
And a blind man would have realized
That the Grey was not alone
The villain of the piece, he loomed
Yahoo, oh no we cried
But the Grey dug deep, for on this day
He would not be denied
Like a stag he leapt and how we gazed
In awe, respect and wonder
As this figurehead, who clad in white
Unleashed his power like thunder
Yahoo, a well known mudlark
Took the last a length ahead
But the grey horse came a running
Whilst the rest were left for dead
So up the Hill a battle fought
With courage forged from fire
Stride for stride, neck and neck
They’d take it to the wire
Finally our dreams came true
A roar rang through the stand
As the mighty Grey passed by the past
The Champion of the land
Now Desert Orchid’s left us
For the land of pastures pure
He runs with a horse named Arkle
Of that, you can be sure.
©Henry Birtles