A White Horse

You hide behind the myth of the
White horse.
As if it is I
Seeking the one who rides it.
But this is not
And has never been
What I am looking for.
The bemoaned knight
Is not the one I know
Or want.

Perhaps it is the horse itself,
Running wild and rampant
Over the plains.
Freedom incarnate,
In a tumble of mane
And hooves,
That I seek.
An unadulterated,
Open and unfettered
Creature.
Nostrils flared to take in
And release the clean air.

Riderless,
Not tied to me
Or any other
By duty or need.
Just brazen and laughing
Beating a path
Into the wind.
This is what I look for.
This, and the sweet moments
Of stillness.

When the equine beasts
Come to rest in the grass,
Simply themselves,
Suddenly showing us their dapples,
And dark hairs,
Coming up grey and gentled.
Not white,
Not wild after all.