The night, spotting us |
|
The spring winds rush buffeting Tonight past her house, an Invisible stampede of Aolean horses Running, funneling through the valley Manes and tails swept back and streaming The shale only slightly rattling under their Multitudinous hoofbeats. She stares through her walls And hears the forest calling The soft sighs of needled branches Telling of the passing of horses Sweeping through her valley On their eager way home. Her distant eyes wander, Seeing no ceiling, Only mountaintops that Stand naked except for Diaphanous wrappings of Curling mists, Protectively carrying upon their Craggy shoulders the shaggy green Forests that roll on and over The silent granite sentinals -- And she is sweeping Through her valley Upon the backs of Aolean horses On their eager way homeward To the Storehouses of God. Alan Bruce |