Wild Horses

Sometimes, across this land of silver grasses,

There comes a sound upon the listening air,

As if, along the old dim trails and passes,

Horses were there.

Galloping swiftly, riderless, unbidden,

Their smoky manes a blur against the light,

Wild horses that have never yet been ridden,

Lunging in fright

Before some scent or sound, some windward gleaning

Of distant threat, their arching necks held high,

Their ears alert to catch the inner meaning

Of step or cry …

Almost I see them down the windy weather,

Their satin muscles rippling as they run,

Wild horses that have never known a tether,

Mates to the sun.

Mates to the lightning and the crashing thunder,

The black winged night, the white on rushing dawn –

Wild Horses – Ah, the beauty and the wonder

Of things long gone!