at the edge of a western wood we stood,

quiet horse, forest breeze, golden wheat

all was good, all was plenty,

spread out far and wide beneath us

 

he set his head

to the distant east

master of power

master of grace

 

the miles rolled away

under his feet

drums to his gallop

beats to his pace

 

ahead in the distance

minarets shone

gleams of the sun

reflected heat

 

he slowed in the fields of asphodel

a place of quiet and gentle shades

on the cedar scented summer air

he stopped to rest and gain his breath

 

I never found my purpose there

nor the reason why we came

I left him then, journeyed alone

still haven’t found my way back home

from the dangerous, thrilling, sudden ride

to the fields of the asphodels