written by: Polly Oliver
Through wet-silver’d lanes
arc’d over with green
deep as myth you rode
under flying moon and pale sun-
rinsed pure and meek
by the adolescent year’s flurries.
The dough-soft hills of your kingdom-
whispering land startled awake-
rolled away under thudding black hooves
driven on by your urgent legs.
But how you wished instead
you could ride astride raven or hawk
whose route would not be thwarted
by the twists in ancient lanes
or sudden bends in old ways;
but direct as a feather-tipped dart
taking you and your love to the waiting heart
of the flower-cheeked one you loved before
your days flowed apart
carrying dreams to unplanned shores.
But you, beloved, stare down the dark,
riding with fury against the push of Time,
That rolls boulders to pebbles which lie
silent in the endless wash of tides.