This poem might set a new personal best for the longest it has taken to write one. I had the idea 10, 15, maybe more years ago but never quite saw beyond a mere description. But now we have it. It's not for me to say whether it was worth the wait.
The Winter Game
All the time the prospect of loss dances
about them as if risk were delicious,
as if to tempt the devil from his rest
and invite him down to the track to see
them clatter through the tops of husbandry,
exhaling fire on the coldest of days,
their riders perched like natterjacks waiting
to spring until push comes to shove, your score
precarious upon them, too. The last,
you need to hold your breath. You’ve seen it all
before- the fall, the bad mistake, the time
yours loomed up, confident, you counting cash
in your head before the one in front out-
jumped him and left you with just the ticket.