Wild Stallion

Wild Stallion

The wind is rustling the trees,
Putting my hurried life at ease,
On the ground, I hear galloping hooves,
Gracefully, the wild horse moves.

The stallion moves at a very fast pace,
As if he is in a galloping race,
The wind sweeps up his jet black mane,
His tail follows behind him, down the lane.

His gentle eyes watch ahead,
As he heads toward the dry riverbed,
He loves speeding, galloping around,
The wind picks up, yet without a sound.

His blaze is white, his body is black,
There is no saddle, upon his back,
He flies high, over the jump,
And he lands softly, without a thump.

His muzzle softly directs the way,
He is free, night and day,
He loves the wind, on his face,
He loves the hills, his favourite place.

His soothing gallop puts me at peace,
I see him canter past the geese,
Each stride he takes, I see him fly,
Oh well, my black stallion, Goodbye.