Dick King Poem by Gert Strydom

On the back of old Somerset
Dick King did his best,
galloping with no time to rest
riding heroic through the sun and the wet,

ignoring murderous wild men, savages
who held their war feasts
and ferocious roaming beasts,
at night shadows and creeping images

but through hostile territory
he rode six hundred miles in ten days
to find British troops to set his kinsmen free,
with his gaze always

looking at the next horizon,
while at speed he travelled on.