Our Poem

For some the dream of Gold comes true,
For the rest there's so much else to do,
The joy to ride with wind on your face,
Crouched low at the canter, thrilled by the pace
Across meadows, moors, mountains and sand,
A magnificent stride eats up the land,
And you dreamed of Gold long ago,
You've achieved far more, but of that you know.

Verse by Mary Lascelles

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