Knightly Woa 🙂

Thoughts drift over a wet day in May.

An old tin-canned Knight sat on Rufus.

October, it was, and I clanked.

If my bones clanked; my thoughts cut me to ribbons.

Ribbons, I would not win again,

Or, wear in my salt and pepper hair.

Sight fades and my visor is specs

My shield cannot save me from the thoughts that plague me,

I am too old to ride.

 

Had I ever been at home on a horse?

Wasn’t it like a bike?

How could I forget?

Muscle memory fades.

Memories of escapades, long ago, grow.

This hurts on too many levels.

 

It is too late.

No, never too late.

But it hurts.

So?

 

I have no pride.

Am #alive, am #riding horses, am #writing, am #gardening,

Am #writing to you.

Am #accepting,

It’s what I do.

 

A Sage once told me not to give up writing for something I love less,

But, never give up something you love more…

Guilty and paying the price.

 

Horses were always in my dreams.

Nightmares tamed; ridden till dawn.

Hero’s, horses and sunsets.

White horses playing in with the sands of time.

 

I rode before I could read or write.

Broomstick-sock horse, saw-horse, garden wall.

Rider then Writer

Not more one or the other.

My pen, my lance,

My shield, my page.

Writer and Rider again once more.