THE FOREST GREEN: THE MIDNIGHT RIDE    
 THE MIDNIGHT RIDE6 comments
Sunday, August 1st 2004, by Marissa A Spencer

The Midnight Ride

She batted her eyes and smiled winsomely,
While the storm raged outside.
The fire was warm as he turned so handsomely,
Hoping for a midnight ride.
To gallop the freezing night away,
Crying aloud, giving in full sway.
As his eyes opened wide,she had nothing to hide,
And they rode till the break of day.

Imagine the rush of the blood to the cheeks
Jumping o'er hurdles and occasional creeks
Breathing so labored it rasped and it gasped
Cries of delight carried out through the night
Two riding wildly o'er each hill until light.

That quivering steed standing proud 'til the last
The endurance of strength starting slow.... ending fast.
How broad was that chest where beat a great heart
As the night wore on, he was strong as the start.
Nostrils flaring to signal exertions unending
What better way for the night to be spending!

The fire died down and was time for some rest
His great muscles trembled at her soft caress.
The steed was let into his corral for the night
But lo…he wants out to go riding 'til light
She whispers "alright one more ride my marvelous steed"
And they rode one more time at a gentler speed.


© January 23, 2000
revised January 16. 2002 Marissa A Spencer

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6 comments

1 Aug 2004 @ 20:29 by vaxen : Did you...
perchance catch drift of that Horned Hunter of yore? Herne with his marvelous horn.  

1 Aug 2004 @ 22:50 by skookum : did he play
a flute?

AH.. YOU MEAN THIS ONE

"Herne the Hunter
Windsor, Berkshire


Herne was the favourite huntsman of Richard the Second. Mortally wounded while saving his master from a stag at bay, he was miraculously cured by a stranger, who tied the antlers of a dead stag to the dying man's brow. He claimed in payment all Herne's skill in venery. Crazed by the loss of that skill in the craft he loved, Herne fled to the forest, where a pedlar found his horned corpse hanging from an oak. But every night he returned at the head of a spectral hunt to harry the Windsor game as of old. "  

1 Aug 2004 @ 23:42 by vaxen : Not really...
that does, however, capture some of the 'poetry' inherent within the image of the 'god of witches.' ;) The spectral hunt...  

2 Aug 2004 @ 04:41 by spiritseek : great poem
well I must say that got a bit steamy,loved it.  

2 Aug 2004 @ 12:10 by skookum : proof
I have a great imagination (not having much personal experience to go on here)lol

ty Spirit..  

2 Aug 2004 @ 12:53 by vaxen : Skookum...
this is not your 'first' time in this world and the 'whole track' (memory) far exceeds this dinky bit of fluff called time by the denizens of this tiny, itty bitty, prison planet...you call 'Earth.' The Faeries call this planet 'Mud Ball.' You are not your body, skookum, caontray to what you have been taught. You are eternal so...

You've had lots and lots of experience and it shows...  

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Other entries in
Monday, September 22nd 2008: Turning (poem)
Friday, July 25th 2008: In the Garden
Sunday, June 15th 2008: Beyond
Sunday, June 15th 2008: The Food Prayer
Sunday, June 15th 2008: Between Here and There
Wednesday, May 28th 2008: poem: we are dancing
Sunday, May 18th 2008: Fading
Thursday, April 10th 2008: The Winds
Sunday, February 24th 2008: Perfect
Wednesday, February 13th 2008: My Garden Waits

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