A shadowed wraith on weak arthritic limbs,
the old horse leaves his shelter-belt of trees
beneath a sickle moon.
From the still and patient night,
there breathes a whispered breeze
to beckon him,
as it has done before.
He slowly comes with measured tread,
to stand upon an earthen wall
above the pool reflecting him,
and, facing east, he waits.
His chestnut coat
by night bedewed,
his head and neck held low
as if in prayer,
and there, stock-still, he stands,
until the first sharp rays
break out above the hill
to bathe his ears in splendour,
then his back,
brazing him once more,
a burnished bronze,
fit for Bellerophon to ride
against the Chimera of day.
The shadows, mute, shrink back
aghast,
in reverential awe.
Still, this ancient horse stands still
as does the world and time,
his head now raised
to breathe a wisp of breath,
a soft grey incense
silvered by the dawn.
and then, to hail this newborn day,
there starts a joyful chorus,
the orison of birds.
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