Childhood Dreams
When I was a child,
horses raced across my consciousness
like storm chased clouds.
They sprung from my crayons
onto a blank pages,
horse words filled reams of paper
in my exercise books.
Every book written about them was worn,
read and re-read,
stained with dirt from my grubby hands.
I schemed,
prayed to gods-indeterminate,
to have one of my own.
On screens of black and white,
their images smudged, movement’s jerky,
manes and tails flying,
hero’s rode into myth.
They were magical
in an un-magical world.
A world of loneliness,
an earthquake world,
where each step
might lead to nothingness,
a gray concrete world
of uncertainty and pain.
The dreams of a little girl
who would seek them
at fairs and carnivals,
where poor ponies stood patiently,
look for them along the road
during our many moves.
Would find them in any town
we stayed in, however bleak.
Would work all day at a barn
just to smell or touch them,
joy of joy to be able to ride one.
I knew that each one was a safe place to be,
to hold all the love I could give,
with my arms around their neck
my head on their shoulder,
not once rejected.
Impermanent and fleeting as it was,
I knew that they were a safe haven.
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