I am not one of those who dream
Of horses so when one of them --
White, unsaddled, with a trace
Of melancholy about his mouth
And the customary eyes of bleak fire --
Began turning up, racing through fields
In my rural dreams or leaping
From roof to roof in those having
An urban setting, I knew he wasn't mine.
Somewhere, there's a nine year old girl
Who, leaping onto the back
Of a surly large and lop-earred rabbit
Rides away, searching for adventure.
No comments:
Post a Comment