Ghost Horse

• Victoria Bassett-Wilton, Grade 4
• Poetry
• 2010

Here he comes as swift as a bird,
Untamed, primitive and savage.
I turn and the stallion’s wild, rolling eyes
Stare through me,
Without notice he comes to a sudden halt.
His front left hoof paws at the cinnamon dust,
Like a chess player contemplating his next move.
Well developed muscles ripple under his bay coat.
I hold my breath, panic gripping me like a strangle hold.
Abruptly he turns hard right, decision made,
Galloping off into the inky darkness,
The pale moon catches glimpses of his long mane and tail
As they flow behind him and
In a heart-beat he is gone.