She goes for the sound of the words, the beauty they hold
in the movement they make on the air, the shape
of the breath of a word leaving her lips like a whistle

or kiss. So Hyperion's tips mean nothing to her, the form,
the favourites, whether the going is heavy or firm,
the horse a stinker or first time blinkered. It's words

she picks, names she ticks. That day it was Level Headed
at 10-1, two syllables each to balance the musical chime
of lev and head, the echoing el. She backed it to win

and then on a whim went for Indian Nectar at 7-2
to come in next. Indiannectar. Indiannectar. She stood
in a trance at the counter, singing it over and over

again in her head which was why, she guessed, she decided
to pick Sharp Spice (5-2 fav) to gallop in third - the words
seemed to fit. Most days she sits with her stump of a pen

writing the poems of bets. And how can she lose? Just listen
to some of the names that she didn't choose - Heiress of Meath,
Springfieldsupreme, Mavis, Shush, Birth of the Blues.