Horse races marked the passage of time; one of the few things he and his father shared as he grew up. At Doncaster, the Lincoln heralded the start of Spring, the St. Ledger the end of Summer. What was it about Doncaster and the seasons? He had been there once, disquieted by the cavernous betting hall buried beneath the stands.
Places and horses made an impression on him; time less so. Years blurred into one, all those Springs and Summers. But there could only be one Troy, one Rheingold, living on within him and outside the constraints of time.
99 words – 17th September, 2017