The Ghost Horse

THE GHOST HORSE



On a field where once a battle raged
A farm was built
And many horses stabled.
All were loved but one--
That one always feared.

Around the arena she walks
Since 1812 perhaps.
Looking for help for her fallen friend
Slain on the battleground
So long ago.

Around and around she walks
This faithful tortured mare.
Upon the bloodied ground the arena stands.
The ground where once her soldier died
In agonizing pain.

Nightly she walks, pleading, begging
For me to follow her
When I approach, she fades into the mist
From whence she came.
I know not where she goes.

Perhaps her soldier too
Is made of this self same mist.
Am I too late
By near two hundred years?
How long will she walk?

What is the secret she needs to share?
What is the agony
She alone must endure?
Where is the justice
Her faithful search deserves?

This handsome bay Arabian mare
Who leaves no footprints in the sand
Leaves no smell or sound
Only her pleading eyes cry out.
A cry for help, unheard by all but a few.

Why am I the one
Who sees her nightly walk?
Why do I see the tortured eyes,
Hear painful pleas for help?
Why am I the one?

I cannot help her endless search.
I cannot help her soldier friend
For he is of a time long past.
And yet she walks.
Forevermore the Ghost Horse walks.

This ghost horse walks in a riding stable in the Ottawa Valley - seen by many and always the same. Perhaps she was a soldier's horse. Perhaps she will continue to plead forever. A mystery indeed.