My dream was thus:
A wooded glade, and moonlight streaming down
like scarves of silk, so delicate, through trees and leaves
and to the ground.
I saw a figure sleeping there,
stretched in the fragrant grass:
She wore my face
and in repose looked pale and cold and fair.
Then from the east a movement came
and from the wood it stepped:
Its mane a blowing, tail a flowing,
hooves struck sparks of forest green
as to my other self it strode
and with its golden horn aglow
gently touched her sleeping brow.
She woke at that, my other self,
with nimble poise she rose,
touched the slender graceful neck
and stroked the velvet nose.
Then she bowed with deep respect,
looked in the liquid eyes.
Like the center of a storm they were:
eternal movement caged and tamed
yet burning still with fearless will
and courage never shamed.
It then bent down, that shining soul:
allowed my other self to mount.
Its mane she gripped, it read her thought
and through the forest night they rode.
Like faerie steed and Sídhe they flew
and where they went, they only knew.
I woke this morn, the dream but wisps
the woodland glade but haze.
But through me pounds the rhythm still:
the hooves, the wind, the daze.
And on my forehead, soft but glowing
shines a mark but rarely seen:
A hoof, a horn, what is it showing,
and is it real, or just a dream?