My dead horse dances through dreams by Irena Szirtes

credit Irena Szirtes

 Blood-beat warm, fine-boned, 

muscled to the brink 

of Flight  - 

yet dream-dipped, murmured 

rather than spoken, she stands,

stirred by my longing

to reconnect our  hearts.

She tips like a flittering bird 

into canter, one ear

tilted to where I stand, 

circling me again, again, 

so I totter, bodied now, as If

solid ground delivered me 

from drifting dreams. 

A thought, and she hears, 

powers down to trot, tail high;

a hand-flick, and she stills, 

ethereal as falling feathers.

Why, pure-instinct equus,

did she choose me?

She is pale, proud, white 

as mist over water, poised

like a bee’s wing, 

brimming the arena with 

knowledge of her worth,

flashed through with wild, yet

each fibre fresh-fixed on me - 

I marvel as we move at liberty 

once more, our souls synced 

in songs without sound. 

Dark dissolves, dreams dissipate.

She lingers, though invisible now;

I taste her scent, 

finger-tip warm sinews, 

reach for the straggles of her mane.

But she is gone.