The Horses In Haymarket Poem by C Richard Miles

See the horses in the fountain stand and stare at Leicester Square
Where they long to wander freely in the London evening air,
But their dreams are sadly dented as they realise, alas.
That they’re simply only statues, made from tarnished bronze and brass.

So they gaze in contemplation as the fountains sport and splash
At the hordes of weary tourists who are running out of cash
But, in their imagination, just before the break of day,
These silent stallion statues come to life to roam and stray.

They will prance down Piccadilly, and trot to Trafalgar Square,
Where the sleeping lions slumber, on their plinths, without a care.
Then they neigh regards to Nelson, on his high and mighty seat,
Who will wink in sly collusion, every morning when they meet

But as soft, returning sunbeams strive to turn the dark to dawn
These noble beasts will vanish like the long-lost unicorn
And, as Eros aims his arrow, which gets never, ever shot
The horses in the fountain stand there, rooted to their spot.