Sunset Ride

I will ride into the sunset on a
strong horse, with sturdy legs and
bright breath, a long mane and
intelligent eyes.  I will ride
proudly, upright, grip hard to
its flanks, hold the reins with
purpose in my hands.  I will
not be frightened of the lands,
of the uneven terrain, of wind,
sun, or rain.  I will ride
whatever the weather, whatever
storm awaits.  I will ride
from a land of stony ground
where I broke my hands in tilling,
blades always blunt.  No matter
how many stones I lifted,
there were always more.  The
soil was grit and hard.
Flowers grew through it, raised
their pretty heads to the sun
ignored the soil they grew in,
eschewed the stones.  I have the
bones my mother and father
gifted me:  they did not know

the roads I took, did not know
the canyons, lakes, rocks and
thistles I encountered on the way
or of the travellers I met
and their tall tales
their thievery.  They never saw
my fall, never saw
my bones break, the slow
heavy nights of stars wheeling
over, that watched with
glittering eyes as my bones
knitted together, they never heard
my cries.

The land is green, with stony
ground, quince in flower
and blossom trees, a world
of red and white, with bees.

Fair, cool winds ease my passage
and the snow covered mountain
peaks ease my heart.  I point
towards the sunset
and depart.  The rhythm
of the saddle is all there is.

The horse's breath, my limbs,
each bright day a small
peace kiss.  A life lived
tilling stony ground led here,
led to this.  Movement
and the clear fresh air.

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