The house was quiet…

out on the moors
the foxes took turns
singing to each other
back and forth
under the bright
full Moon

A gentle breeze
danced in through the
lace curtains
The windows cracked open
Fingers of silver moonlight
that made patterns
on the Duvet

She lay there
listening to the sounds
of the night
The creaks and groans
in this centuries old
manor on the Hill

History whispering
of busy working days
in the sun
and peaceful nights
watching stars
in mist shrouded fields

It was history
that made Her slide
out from under the
warm covers

watched Her from the
halo of Her candle in
regal oil portraits
as She
descended the
grand stairs

Family members
long dead before She
arrived on this earth
some traveling
No further
than a stone’s throw
from this very house

As she reached
the foyer
She ignored the
Chiding of the Grandfather clock


And it could not
move its mahogany arms
fast enough to snag
Her linen sleeves

Stepping into the night…

its sounds seemed to detonate
around Her
She abandoned Her
candle on the porch
and eschewed the Lantern

Luna was bright enough
to show Her the way
through the dew covered

past bundles of
pompous grass
taller than She
Roaring night insects
mingled with the
chorus of Frogs
down by the River

As she approached
The muddy banks
She was surrounded by
The scent of Water
the rushing
gurgling, under currents
pulled at Her feet
as she waded
in past Her knees

She could choose
to let it take Her
Let it move Her
far beyond Here
Wherever its slowly
churning waters would
be pleased to drop Her off
Standing in the water
Doubt dripped from
the hem of Her skirt like
The droplets of muddy river
Her soul, So long a captive
on this plane of existence

She sought to endure
her days
for more than just
the opportunity to

This night however
Her salvation would
emerge from the billowing
fog on the River bank
an apparition…
a specter, in the form
of a White Stallion

Her equine Savior

She had heard stories
that beasts
could sense the nervous
nature of the Human heart

She tried Her best
to quiet the thundering of Hers
as she approached this..


She whispered the name
as she reached out a hand to
touch the warm flesh
of his neck

his only reaction was to
give a brief puff of warm
steam from His flared nostrils
and dip his head to
softly graze on the
tender, dew soaked, grass

She brushed Her
fingers through his
long mane
marveling at the silkiness
of the strands

The moonlight
made the broad expanse
of his back
Her breath caught
in Her chest as She moved
to climb on
and found that he offered
no resistance

he seemed to straighten
and ready himself
as Her leg
slid over to rest
against His flank

No tack or Harness
no reigns
She tangled Her fingers
into his mane
leaned down across his broad neck
and whisper a word


An explosion of white flame
A star
bursting from the creation
of the universe
The ground flashed by under their
like a smeared oil painting

The sounds of the night
yielded to the roaring wind
in her ears

Her hair
was a black pennant
a battle standard fluttering
behind Her head
and tears rolled down
white-hot and full of salt
drying almost instantly
in the tempest of the night air
against Her cheeks

The fields rolled away
from Her
a soft pastel
shadowed landscape
with the manor house
growing ever more minuscule
in the distance

And She wondered
For a brief moment
how they would come
to find Her gone the next morning

how the moors would be combed
with men in plaid vests
accompanied by braying foxhounds
how they would call Her
until the setting of the Sun
rendered vision down to
a lantern’s fiery beam

And finding no answering call
nor evidence of Her passing
In later years would the same
story be told…

that on a full moon’s night
on the edge of the horizon
just out
of the corner of the eye
You can see
A flash of white mane…
and you can hear the faint echo of a thundering gallop…

and you can know

that She is free.