En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Wind-Struck Music

Ed Stiles and old Tom Birnam went up to their cattle on the
bare hills
Above Mai Paso; they'd ridden under the stars' white death,
when they reached the ridge the huge tiger-lily
Of a certain cloud-lapped astonishing autumn sunrise opened all
its petals. Ed Stiles pulled in his horse,
That flashy palamino he rode cream-color, heavy white mane,
white tail, his pride and said
'Look, Tom. My God. Ain't that a beautiful sunrise?' Birnam
drew down his mouth, set the hard old chin,
And whined: 'Now, Ed: listen here: I haven't an ounce of
poetry in all my body. It's cows we're after.'
Ed laughed and followed; they began to sort the heifers out of
the herd. One red little deer-legged creature
Rolled her wild eyes and ran away down the hill, the old man
hard after her. She ran through a deep-cut gully,
And Birnam's piebald would have made a clean jump but the clay lip
Crumbled under his take-off, he slipped and
Spilled in the pit,
flailed with four hooves and came out scrambling.
Stiles saw them vanish,
Then the pawing horse and the flapping stirrups. He rode and
looked down and saw the old man in the gulley-bottom
Flat on his back, most grimly gazing up at the sky. He saw the
earth banks, the sparse white grass,
The strong dark sea a thousand feet down below, red with reflections
of clouds. He said 'My God,
Tom, are you hurt?' Who answered slowly, 'No, Ed.
I'm only lying here thinking o' my four sons' biting the words
Carefully between his lips 'big handsome men, at present lolling
in bed in their . . . silk . . . pyjamas . . .
And why the devil I keep on working?' He stood up slowly and
wiped the dirt from his cheek, groaned, spat,
And climbed up the clay bank. Stiles laughed: 'Tom, I can't tell
you: I guess you like to. By God I guess
You like the sunrises.' The old man growled in his throat and said
'Catch me my horse.'

This old man died last winter, having
lived eighty-one years under open sky,
Concerned with cattle, horses and hunting, no thought nor emotion
that all his ancestors since the ice-age
Could not have comprehended. I call that a good life; narrow,
but vastly better than most
Men's lives, and beyond comparison more beautiful; the wind-struck
music man's bones were moulded to be the harp for.

poem by Robinson Jeffers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A White Horse Of The Most Magical Kind

She rode a white horse,
rode it for sanity;
galloped and cantered
with rhythmic consistency,
walked for a while
along glistening streams
and trotted through dark woods
with the darkest of dreams.

Bridled with a need to express
she rode east and rode west,
never stopping or ceasing her quest,
until she reached
the most beautiful shore,
of a beach of white sand
with a moon in the sky
that reached with its moonlight
into her heart, that had cried.

She dismounted the horse
and danced on the sands
with stars in her eyes;
pure love in her hands.
She looked at her horse
praised it and said
'a horse such as you
is a magical find
a horse that's named poetry
is the most wonderful kind.'

poem by David Taylor
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* * *

Papa on the horse

As I remember,
Papa rode on the horse
the White horse

He was so cruel
And he would not
Feed
The white horse
For days

One day
They went to the
Sea
The white horse
And papa

I wished the
White horse
Would swim
To the other island
And leave
Papa for good

He was so cruel
And he would beat
The white horse
For days

But the white horse
Stayed
she was not fed
For days

One day
The White Horse
Got mad
And bit
Papa to death.

I did not wish
The horse
Would eat
Papa whole.

I too would be
Cruel then.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The White Horse...

on that early dawn
they arrived. I will not tell you
exactly how many were they.
they brought the wild horse again
this time it is white and coy
they did not speak to me
my attention was focused on the
beautiful horse
i did not show that i liked it
i did not talk too
then they brought the horse inside
the house
and then the windows and doors
were closed
and then the white horse started to
dance
and i liked it more

it was then that i realized
what are they really
and why are they here bringing me
a beautiful white horse

will they take my antique chairs
made of rosewood?
will i bargain my house
for a horse?

just for a horse
and they whose names i do not really know
shall laugh
after they had finally taken the whole of what i have

just for a white horse whose talent is just
to dance?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Papa on the horse As I remember

Papa rode on the horse
the White horse

He was so cruel
And he would not
Feed
The white horse
For days

One day
They went to the
Sea
The white horse
And papa

I wished the
White horse
Would swim
To the other island
And leave
Papa for good

He was so cruel
And he would beat
The white horse
For days

But the white horse
Stayed
she was not fed
For days

One day
The White Horse
Got mad
And bit
Papa to death.

I did not wish
The horse
Would eat
Papa whole.

I too would be
Cruel then

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Horse Play

Four gallant horses
galloped forth.

One was white, one was black,
one was red, one was brown.

One had four legs,
one had three,
one had two,
and the fourth had one leg.

The one-legged horse
said to the others :
the time for dance has come,
sweet friends,
let's dance on a single hoof !

All of them liked the idea,
and the dance began.
The four-legged horse fainted outright,
the three-legged horse slipped and fell,
the two-legged horse limped to a fall :
only the one-legged one
danced on and on.

poem by Ayyappa Paniker
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The Friesian Rider

As if a sunrise
I woke up to a view
Hurdles of horses gliding smoothly
Their legs extended and tails flapping
And as I blossom in a red attitude
Clouds darken the view from my eyes
Suddenly a white horse appears
And my eyes wonder
The land mocks at me
And I try to blend as its rider
But the white horse springs away
Into the dark doom
Away from the Ark
And I'm saved from the wasteland
And as the night goes down, goes down
I wake up on a golden land
To me a wild black horse glazes
He can only be ridden by royalty
I open my eyes in amazement
He blows dragonish flames through his nostrils
He is so glossy and
Oh! Is he the one! !
He crooks his forelegs in pride
The earth echoes his galloping
A giant Friesian must be coming
At last he rushes to me
And tramples the gold sand
Stretching my hands to embrace
New horizons we foresee
And we fuse together as one
We ride, we ride
Inspired by our fervent
Our valiant stride
Onto our dreams
We fling silver hello from star to star
My Friesian horse breaks fire underfoot
We reach the shores of our wildest dreams
If two is one then we.

poem by Mira Hafsi
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The Last Muster

All day we had driven the starving sheep to the scrub where the axes ply,
And the weakest had lagged upon weary feet and dropped from the ranks to die;
And the crows Hew up from the rotting heaps and the ewes too weak to stand,
And the fences Haunted red skins like flags, and the dour drought held the land.
And at night as I lay a-dreaming, I woke, and a silver moon
Shone fair on a dancing river and laughed to a broad lagoon,
And the grass turned over the fences and rippled like ripening grain,
And clouds hung low on the hilltops, and earth smelt sweet with the rain.

And in at the open window the lowing of cattle came -
A mob that had never a laggard and never a beast that was lame;
And wethers, a thousand thousand, and ewes with their lambs beside,
Moved over the green flats feeding, spread river to ranges wide.

And horses whinnied below me, and leaning I watched them pass,
Lusty and strong and playful like horses on spring-tide grass
When they whinny one to another, strong-voiced, and a gallop brings
Foam to the Hank, be it only from paddock to stockyard wings.

Slowly they moved in the moon-mist, heads low in the cool night-dew,
Snatching the long bush grasses, breast-high as they wandered through;
Slowly they moved in the moon-mist, and never a horse on the plains
Was red with the gall of the collar or marked with a chafe of the chains.

And behind them a hundred drovers rode slow on their horses white,
All brave with their trappings of silver that Hashed in the silver light;
Buckle and stirrup and bridle, and spurs for their better speed -
Singing behind the cattle like drovers on royal feed.

And I cooeed, and one came over that rode on the nearest wing,
And I called to him, "Ho, there, drover! say, whose is the mob you bring?"
Then he reined his horse by the window, all silver-bitted and shod,
And spoke, and his words rang sadly, "These are the cattle of God!"

So I said to him, "Where are they bound for?" and he raised his hand to the West:
They are bound for the star-fenced pastures on God's own rivers, to rest."
And I asked him "Where did you muster?" and he answered me sadly again,
"From every gully and sandhill, from every valley and plain,

"From the swamps of the green kapunyah, from the reeds at the red creek-side,
From the thickets of twisted mulga, from the clay-pans furrowed and dried,
From the track to the Western goldfields, from the ruts of the Great North Road,
Where the dingoes go and the crows fly low we have gathered the beasts of God."

And I said, "Then has God repented because that He sent no rain?
And has God looked down in His pity on the poor dumb beasts He has slain?"
But the drover turned in his saddle and answered, his eyes in mine,
"Not so; for the beasts were slaughtered by man of his greed's design:

"God gave to them feed and water and pastures so wild and wide
They had fed him a thousand million from here to the ocean side;
But man in his greed came after and fenced them on hill and plain
And cursed the God in His heaven that would not send them His rain;

"And man's be the blame of the bleaching bone and the shame of the rotting hide,
And the pity of lorn lambs crying alone on the wind-swept mountain-side,
Of the weak horse down in his harness, of the bullock dead by the dray,
Of the moan of the thirsty cattle for ever and ever and aye!"

And he spoke to his steed and left me - moved out on the mist it seemed,
And I woke to the red burned acres, and knew that I had but dreamed.

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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A Horse For Dinner

A horse A horse
My kingdom for a horse,
A horse A horse
For the main course

Muscles of might
Pulled so tight,
A body of organs
All for a meal

Why a horse?
Why not a deer?
A horse does the work,
A deer will just peer

A horse is strong
a deer has no uses,
so there for a deer
suffers the abuses

Condemned is a deer
as from the day it's born,
until the day it dies
and its meaty flesh torn

So why a horse
if a deer has no uses?
because I am a man
Who too, has suffered too many abuses

poem by John McAdam
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Wind Horse

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.

Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.

poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Riding The Dark Horse

Riding along on the dark horse of sadness.
Each day or night.
The dark horse is my companion.
We ride through life.
On a dark stream of light.
Riding along side is depression.
My second companion.
We ride together in search of happiness.
We never find.

Riding the dark horse through this life.
I'm filled with sorrow.
Tears are inside.
As I reflect on my journey through life.
I see that the dark horse has always been,
what I ride.
The dark horse of sorrow.
Has always been by my side.

I will continue to ride,
The dark horse in this life.
Until I die.
Exchanging the dark horse for white,
as I cross the great divide.
Entering the gates of life on the other side.
Where happiness I may finally find.
Leaving the dark horse of sorrow behind.

Taking the two companions,
sorrow and depression with me.
As I ride to the other side.
Changing their apperance to laughter and joy.
As I dismount on heaven's shore.
Filled with so much joy.
As I look back on my journey.
That I rode to heavens door.
I finally see the beauty of my companions.
That rode with me upon life's shores.
They changed before my eyes.
Becoming laughter and joy.
Beautiful spirits of love to behold.
That rode on the dark horse of life with me.
Till reaching heavens shore.

poem by Weeping Willow
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My Comrade

Out from my window westward
I turn full oft my face;
But the mountains rebuke the vision
That would encompass space;
They lift their lofty foreheads
To the kiss of the clouds above,
And ask, "With all our glory,
Can we not win your love?"

I answer, "No, oh mountains!
I see that you are grand;
But you have not the breadth and beauty
Of the fields in my own land;
You narrow my range of vision
And you even shut from me
The voice of my old comrade,
The West Wind wild and free."

But to-day I climbed the mountains
On the back of a snow-white steed,
And the West Wind came to greet me--
He flew on the wings of speed.
His charger, and mine that bore me,
Went gaily neck to neck,
Till the town in the valley belkow us
Looked like a small, dark speck.

And oh! what tales he whispered
As he rode there by me,
Of friends whose smiling faces
I am so soon to see.
And the mountains frowned in anger,
Because I balked their spite,
And met my old-time comrade
There on their very height;

But I laughed up in their faces,
As I rode slowly back,
While the Wind went faster and faster,
Like a race-horse on the track.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Demon Horse On The Carousel

The trucks came in with the travelling show
To the heart of our western town,
They set their tents in the twilight glow
And circled the wagons round,
While we, the boys of the neighbourhood
Were watching with minds alight,
The girls in the pearl bikini’s
Who would brave the trapeze that night!

The light sprang out of a million bulbs
In yellow and pink and green,
Lighting the booths of the grinning clowns
That you rolled a ball between,
A Carny carolled, ‘A Penny a shy! ’
And leered, with his gold-capped teeth,
Like a hungry shark at the fattest Mark,
But with eyes of a petty thief!

And then the music began to stir
Like a grind from an organ song,
The puffing steam of the calliope
As the crowd began to throng,
While horses bucked and lowered their heads
The Carousel went by,
Riding on into the future as
It left us, high and dry.

I stayed all night by the Carousel,
Watching the people ride,
Off to a magical future where
No-one grew old, or died,
The organ stuttered its music
And the steam puffed by in clouds,
As a big black horse by the inner rail
Stood wrapped in a sheet-like shroud!

Nobody rode that noble horse,
Nobody even tried,
The Barker motioned the folks away
When they strayed to the horse’s side,
But I stood still and hypnotised
To watch as it rose and fell,
Its mane a-stream like the darkest dream,
As dark as the deepest well!

I waited until they called - ‘Last ride,
The last ride for the night! ’
I paid my money and climbed aboard
And went for the horse - ‘Midnight! ’
The Barker stood with his back to me
Was calling the ride aloud,
So I hid beside the great black horse,
Pulled off the enveloping shroud!

The ride was off and away, I leapt
And clung to the horse’s mane,
Its head was tossing so high and proud,
This horse had never been tame!
The stars were high in the midnight sky,
The Moon was up and about,
But then the music began to change,
And the lights of the ride went out.

The wind blew up and the world went by
And the Carousel spun round,
I couldn’t see past the horses head,
We seemed to be far from the ground,
The horse got rid of its wooden pole
Whinnied, while shaking its head,
Then turned to look at the boy on its back,
And the glass in its eyes glowed red.

The music suddenly turned around
Ran backwards around the rig,
Just like a mad asylum sound,
It seemed like a whirligig,
While ‘Midnight’ galloped on through the stars
And bucked and pranced in the air,
And I grew sick with a deadly fear
I’d be thrown off its back out there!

The ride continued for hour on hour,
We travelled down to the core,
I saw some visions of what might be…
I don’t want to see any more!
‘Just take me back to the town, ’ I cried,
‘Just let my nightmare be! ’
The horse looked on me with glowing eyes,
I’d swear that he pitied me!

The lights came on in the Carousel,
The horse, it came to a stop,
I slipped and fell from the horse’s back,
And the Barker helped me up.
I felt so stiff I could barely move,
The man said – ‘and that’s why…
We never let fellows as old as you
Take the Demon Horse for a ride! ’

poem by David Lewis Paget
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Go Down, Death

Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more;
She only just gone home.

Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from his great, high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell of Sister Caroline,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.

And God sat back on his throne,
And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand:
Call me Death!
And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder:
Call Death!--Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
Till it reached away back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,
But they didn't make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God's command.

And God said: Go down, Death, go down,
Go down to Savannah, Georgia,
Down in Yamacraw,
And find Sister Caroline.
She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
She's labored long in my vineyard,
And she's tired--
She's weary--
Do down, Death, and bring her to me.

And Death didn't say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven's pearly gates,
Past suns and moons and stars;
on Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
Straight down he came.

While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death.She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Caroline;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I'm going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.

And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she didn't feel no chill.
And death began to ride again--
Up beyond the evening star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Sister Caroline
On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.

Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.

poem by James Weldon Johnson
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The Black Horse Rider

For George Anthell

Between them is the land of broken colors,
the land that makes a mock of him
with miles.
He rides, he rides,
he passes through the flat
chrome wheatfields
cut by the plough of the river makers.

The hills are aslant,
the clay torsos, the hills,
the clay has a red wound,
it gapes.
The white roots cry,
there is a mute susurrus in the dark:
poppies, poppies are you not
their pain?

With hoof on flint and flint
the black horse
rides: black wind, black
against fire.

The black horse crooks his
forelegs, the hills split open,
his nostrils pour flame.
Snort, snort through miles,
O charger, through rock.

He drinks the mezas,
he burns his thin knees over
braziers of grass:
Ride, ride.

Sky is spilt water,
a silver hello is flung
from star to star.
Black horse breaks
fire underfoot and now
his mane is a burnt city,
his mouth churned ocean,
foam on his belly a constellation.

At last he tramples
the sand
behemoth
Asleep before the sea.

poem by Pierre Loving
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Horse and Rider

The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain

Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider

There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green

poem by Horse Poet
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Nightly visitor

While I dreamed last night
I suddenly awaked
and through the window in the moon
saw a grey horse snort at the fountain
and fire glowed in that animal’s eyes.

A woman that’s really beautiful
and white, rigid and merciless
glided out of the saddle
and around me every thing was deadly silent
and the look in her dark eyes
cut right through me
without any life.

I still wanted to ask her
how she got to stand so suddenly
next to me, but she already walked
right through the walls and were gone.

l’Envoi
Next door where the wasted away woman
that had AIDS lived
I heard half chocked
a last rattling cough,
before horse hoofs
hit sparks out of the tar road
and the white women
rode away in haste.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Wallabi Joe

The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joe's a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
He'd barely do for a Sunday's ride.

O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
"I'm weary of galloping now," he cried,
"I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
And I feel that my legs won't stand much more."

Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
And off he rode with a whip in his hand
To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.

Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
He searched up and down every gully he knew,
But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
"Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe."

Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
It came into his head to go poking for gold;
So away he went with a spade in his fist,
To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
The hobbles being jammed in a root below
Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Stubbornly Affixed

An exhausted horse,
Began to show signs of weakness...
Years ago.
And those who rode it,
Ignored the signs.
They chose to ride it hard...
And its maintenance declined.

The horse slowed and faltered.
Keeled over and died.
Some got off and announced its death.
While others demanded...
A desire to continue their ride.

Many chose to debate the fate of the horse.
As others observed a replacement due.
Some refused to open their eyes...
And denied an immediate and effective rescue.
As a few stood by...
And blocked all attempts.

Even after the horse was buried...
Heated arguments still exist.
With some lamenting...
The return of leadership,
Decades long gone.
And many...
Who have passed these scenes viewed today...
Walk away amazed,
As to how some can stay fixed...
In their ignorant ways.

And stand they do...
Praising the dirt covered roads now paved.
With wishes they could live lives...
Back when their ancestors had plantations!
Back in 'the day'
In times when they all seem to thrive.
Surrounded by the dancing and the smiling done,
By happy and entertaining slaves!
With none refusing to obey.

And stubbornly affixed they are in their minds.
Disregarding the fact...
The year is two thousand and nine!
With a One World Order rule descending,
Upon them.
And a dead horse collecting dust...
With no one ever again to climb.
To show how much an attention given...
Will allow any of them again to shine!

Pathetic are these mindsets.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wild horses

It’s simple
Life is reborn every day
Don’t bother with vain reasoning
Don’t stumble into blind alleys of thought
Life revives every day
You must know that
It clatters in front of you
Like a herd of wild horses
Pick a horse
Grab his mane and hop on his back
All of them are headed the same way
The important thing is the road taking you there
Show the horse who’s the boss
Dig your heels into his ribs
You’re riding through sunny thickets
Over fields where the grass grows sweetly
And the shadows are softer than women’s flanks
Learn your horse’s vices
Teach him your own
If he happens to be vicious and throws you off
Don’t worry
Jump up on another horse
Plenty of to choose from
The herd is endless
There’ll always be one for you
Life is reborn every day
Do you know that?

poem by Betim Muco
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Enniskillen

Oh my heart beat high with joy elate,
When Danny rode in the Hunters’ Plate
On Enniskillen, the raking grey-
A mighty jumper, with power to stay!
Velvet muzzled, with eye of fire,
Clean-legged, slant –shouldered, and tough as wire,
Oh, the joy that can fill a colleen’s breast,
When her man and horse are dong their best!
The summer skies were without a cloud
O’er the heads of the frantic, cheering crowd,
As he led the field right into the straight,
And his eyes met mine, at the five-barred gate.
Then they thundered by, like a roaring flood,
And oh, good luck to the Irish blood!
The Irish blood that in horse or man
Has never ‘caved in’ since the world began.
He took the last leap, like a bird in the air,
Clearing the hurdle, straight and fair,
And Enniskillen won!

We’d been married for one long blissful year
Of hope and struggle, of joy and fear;
Our hearts were young, and our hopes were high,
And the star of love shone bright in our sky.
And I felt like a queen as I hushed to rest
The little bright head that lay on my breast;
But the air was stifling close and strange
With a scent of smoke from the burning range,
And I prayed for Danny, riding away
On a cattle hunt, on the gallant grey—
The smoke came down like a cloud of night,
And ranges and trees were blotted from sight,
When Enniskillen came galloping home,
His grey coat mottled and flecked with foam,
And Danny’s face was rigid and white,
“Come Sweetheart, we ride for our lives to-night;
Wrap this cloak around you, hold Baby fast,
And pray, till the danger be overpassed,
For the wind has arisen with whirling force,
And our lives depend on the dear, grey horse.

And on God’s good mercy.” – A streak of light,
Enniskillen went racing into the night
The dim stars peered from a reeling sky,
And wild bush creatures came rushing by;
As crash on crash the timber fell,
And the burning wind was a blast of hell.
But Danny held me with steady arm,
And the Babe, between us, slept safe from harm.

We were nearly through, and the battle won,
When Danny drew rein with “Ah God! – We’re done!”
For before us the flames met roaring wide,
Though safety lay on the other side,
One moment, a tremble, the grey horse stood,
Then oh, thank God for the Irish blood,
The Irish blood that in horse and man
Has never ‘ caved in’ since the world began!
With a snort of defiance to smoke and flame,
Through the raging furnace the grey horse came,
Though laboured sobs shook his trembling side,
And falling cinders scorched his hide,
And Enniskillen won!

The grass is waving on hill and plain,
And peace and plenty are here again;
Our little home rebuilt once more,
And the lean struggling year are o’er.
There’s a paddock green on the river flat,
Where a dear grey horse roams strong ans fat,
Though on his back the scars still show,
Deep scars where never a hair can grow.
But still he holds his head with pride,
And treads the earth with a kingly stride,
Proud of his Irish blood!

poem by Alice Guerin Crist
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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