Written by Anne Cross (Braiding-the-Wind) in March of 1996.
My imagination is a horse
a white horse
a grey horse
a black horse
She gallops the plains of Heaven
tossing snow from her hoofs,
Across a sky full of sunlight and angels.
She weaves the woods of Faerie
with the mist thick around her hocks
Through a forest full of shadows and Sidhe
She stamps the depths of Hell
where the mire sucks at her knees
Past a valley full of Darkness and demons
She is my horse and I can guide her,
I can ride her,
But she is a hors and she can fight me,
She can throw me.
In the plains of Heaven, the woods of Faerie, the depths of Hell,
She can leave me to find my way home.
White horse child,
Grey horse child,
Black horse child.
To ride her takes courage,
To catch her takes words
Neither is easy -- especially if she's thrown you.
But I am the teller of tales,
speaker to the wind,
Listener to the sky,
And I will ride where my horse may take me.
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