Coach horses, coach horses, what time of day?
One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away!
The rhyme slips smoothly through my mind.
While your star seeds prance,
ready to run with the wind.
Children try, excited,
for the smallest number
and the fastest end.
Once upon a time
I might have copied them.
If I blow gently,
with care the count might reach ten
or even midnight’s chimes.
No point beyond that.
Starting again at one would not
help hold back the time.
These horses should plod slowly.
The coachman should restrain
his team and let the days pass
quietly with sunshine-filled laziness
in the long grass.
Summer is not for thundering hooves
or scattering hours.
In a season too short for true pleasure.
Even the wildest of flowers
should learn to enjoy leisure.
Your clock is impatient
but my breath is contained.
Dandelion, your coach horses must stay;
without my soft huff of agreement
they cannot yet race away.