Roheryn
5th Nov 2007, 07:40 PM
I'm a rider. I'm getting old and tired
and my joints don't work quite like they used to,
and sometimes I don't want to get out of bed,
'cause the pain may start as soon as I do.
But given a morning of bright autumn fire,
of sunlight, and leaves that flicker like flame,
my heart leaps at the thought of a brand new day
and my body feels like it could do the same.
For there's a barn just at the end of the road
where a horse is grazing, warm in his rug,
and when I come to the gate and call his name
he'll come to greet me with nickers and a warm grassy hug
and we'll ride to the fields of waking dreams,
along the trails of time and of memory
where my body recalls how to trot, and canter, and jump
the logs and the streams of the way things used to be,
when my horse and I could have cut every cow on the ranch,
or leapt Becher's both times at the head of the pack,
or trekked across a continent in a day
at a tireless tolt or running walk or rack;
when every halt was a "ten" and every salute
a genuflection of praise to the maker of days
and of love as boundless as the fountain of youth,
for a horse not just of the year but for always.
and my joints don't work quite like they used to,
and sometimes I don't want to get out of bed,
'cause the pain may start as soon as I do.
But given a morning of bright autumn fire,
of sunlight, and leaves that flicker like flame,
my heart leaps at the thought of a brand new day
and my body feels like it could do the same.
For there's a barn just at the end of the road
where a horse is grazing, warm in his rug,
and when I come to the gate and call his name
he'll come to greet me with nickers and a warm grassy hug
and we'll ride to the fields of waking dreams,
along the trails of time and of memory
where my body recalls how to trot, and canter, and jump
the logs and the streams of the way things used to be,
when my horse and I could have cut every cow on the ranch,
or leapt Becher's both times at the head of the pack,
or trekked across a continent in a day
at a tireless tolt or running walk or rack;
when every halt was a "ten" and every salute
a genuflection of praise to the maker of days
and of love as boundless as the fountain of youth,
for a horse not just of the year but for always.