An experimental tale of a lost rider that meets a spirit in the night. |
clip-clop... tick-tock... My steed and I walked a dusty trail Among a field of brambles The path behind was quickly lost So onward we did ramble. All too soon, the day turned to night; The warming sun to moonlit chill. The wind died down to almost nothing When we spied a figure on the hill. My mount noticed first of course, Being keener of the eye. He whinnied forth a fearful breath, And started pulling to the side. “Woh, ol’ girl,” I said with patience, To calm her anxious nerves. When I gazed beyond the reigns Fear robbed me of my words. Suddenly my hands went stiff. Rendered by a chill so cold. There standing upon the hill; a horseman, And it was I, but old. Sagging were my eyes and cheeks; My body stooped and meager; Sparse and rotted yellow teeth; Eyes wide and red from fever. In a moment of sudden courage I raised my concern to he, “What say you, daunting midnight spirit? Am I to believe that you are me?” Silence gripped the sky and fields. My fearful heart did yearn. He raised a shaking hand at I, And his answer came in turn. "Precious is the passing, from the river to the sea, A pond to mist; A book to gist, A leaf falling from a tree. Is thou truly born of dust Or is dust born of thee" Then suddenly came a gust of wind, As if by his decree. Inch by inch, bone by bone He disappeared upon the breeze. A tremor jolted through my steed, She reared up in surprise. I held on tight, with eager fright Yet struck my head upon a stone. Rising now through shafts of light Beaming through my bedroom door. The subtle ticking of a clock, Sets pace to the days I now adore. Tick tock... Clip clop... |