Celtic Legend by Eliza Witte - HTML preview
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The Ride
Sometimes it used to be gloomy.
Muddy drops – heavy and rude.
Sprinkles from the ground were looming Sticky like a sorrowful mood.
Sometimes they also look cloudy.
Lifeless. The light just cannot Pierce discontent never told loudly In the monotony of the everyday trot.
Sometimes it used to be spring.
The game and the sunspots above.
And the purity of a child in their being Caressed with the most subtle love.
Sometimes it used to be heat.
And dust bound to get in the lungs, And hoofs, that measure the heart-beat, And blood – exalted and stunned.
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And sometimes it used to be windy.
A thunder in a withering mane.
A scent caught on the wave of the rhythm, And a sense which could drive one insane.
Like the weather - inconstant and shifty But beautiful as nature could be, They’re marked each time to be different But always to stay wild and free.
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