The Stallion

I spied him, standing on a knoll
His silver sculptured neck and poll
Bent taught like an ancient archers bow,
Cascade of mane like falling snow
His form like carved and shimmering stone
Upon his knoll he stood, alone.
I watched him there as I passed by,
A perfect silhouette against the sky.
I called him, soft. He whickered low.
Would he come? or would he go?
I held my breath …. He crossed the land
And dropped his nose into my waiting hand.

Jen Whyte
1972

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Tags:

horse and stallion