Waterloo, sport of kings

Alighting from the tube

moving towards the escalator

through the capacious concourse

the area awash with the essence of wet horse.

Are these escalators run by an equine treadmill,

with horse power feeding the conduits and grids?

Perhaps the smell emanates form a subterranean stable

housing stalls of steaming horses
and if there are horses

there’ll be jockeys.

An army of the little fellows

in satin and silk,

standing no more then 4ft 5,

with a a high pitched Irish brogue

harping on about furlongs,

photo-finishes and

the tote.

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