Finding My Mother’s Amateur Jockey Licence #WeekendWritingPrompt

She put it to the back of a wardrobe,

in a bag of mismatched things,

none of any use these days

but none the sort you throw away.

The sort you keep until they’re found

by curious small hands cooped up

by the rain on window panes.

Discovering you before them.



The fair was in the centre of the racecourse

and every Easter we’d beg our parents for pounds

while Granddad clambered to stand on the back of the 4×4

and Granny passed around salmon and cucumber sandwiches,

sausage rolls, cups of tea, and packs of ready salted crisps.

Some years we would squirm away from sun-cream and hats,

while other were spent huddled beneath umbrellas,

or listening to the rain hammer on the roof and windows

while the horses continued to gallop past the windscreen,

mud splattered and steaming.

You and I

counted down the races one by one,

until the vested interests of family friends had run their laps

and someone was free to wander away from the track

to the spinning swings, and the carousels and hook-a-duck

where we laughed and screeched and groaned when we lost.

Now I am older the fair seems smaller

and we do not beg for pound or wander down the bank towards it.

But it’s there

in the distance,

glinting and burnished like a penny in a puddle,

while I eat salmon and cucumber sandwiches in the back of a pickup

and my Grandfather cheers from the flatbed

roaring his runners home.


Not far from where my parents live is Eyton Racecourse and every year they hold point-to-points (an amateur steeplechase) and it’s a family tradition to go each year to one of the Easter meets.

When my sister and I were younger, all we wanted was to go to the fair. It was our favourite part of going to the point-to-point. Now we’re older we don’t go to the fair and we’re more interested in the actual racing.

Hopefully there’s enough about the fair in this to meet tonight’s Poetic’s Prompt from the dVerse Poets Pub!

Charlie Boy

Odds On

“Emerald City, second race,” Linda said, circling the horse’s name on the race card before looking up to see who Jason had picked.

“You sure about that one?” he asked, features creasing into a frown as he leaned over. His own race card lay open on his lap, jottings all along the outside margins as he checked form and history for the ‘sure thing’.

“Like you would know,” Linda huffed.

“At least I pick the way you’re meant to,” Jason said.

“You only think you do,” Linda replied, lips twisting upwards. “Tell me, when was the last time you won?”