By the Harvesters.

Of course, it’s got to be

Better not to dwell on it;

But we’re all going

To lose it one day.

He shouldn’t know it,

This head-down young charger,

Won’t know it until it ambushes him,

But his day is today.

The moment fast coming at him

Like the long corners he habitually

Leans into. Next turn the road will

Refuse his touch, will not, for

The first time catch his drift.

He will be lost while in

The orange distances beyond

The race, the crowds, the roar

Plough-curried hills depend on

Thunder-muscled clouds.

Histories have always been

Written by the harvesters.