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The Old Horse

by Wishes (Judy)
jkp@bright.net

Standing in a field of close-cropped grass,
Surrounded by a dozen sheep,
The old horse sleeps.
Amid birdsong and gentle breezes,
She dreams of shouts and clashing swords.
Instead of sweet wildflowers, purple and gold,
She smells the copper, sees the red, of just-spilled blood.
Snorting softly, she paws the ground,
Remembering the fake, the charge, the turn-around.
She nods gently, as the breeze awakens a memory
Of white sand beach as, surf to the off-side,
Mountains to the near, she galloped,
She and her rider as one,
Both hearts afire with youth and lust for life.
A bird calls. She lifts her head, mistaking the whistle
For that one sound she longs to hear,
A call to days long gone,
A time of travel on roads of dust or mud,
Of days and nights spent with two souls
In harmony with one another--and with her:
One woman tall, the other small,
One of touches, one of words.
The One Who Rides, and The One Who Walks Beside.
The old horse drops her head,
And dozes as the late day sun
Sparks her faded coat to pure gold again,
Blazing bright as the courage in her heart.