Gypsy ghost

Fine is his silky mane, waving wildly in the storm.
A Gypsy stallion watches, as before him
helpless hollow limbs of trees fall, struggling in the gale.

His trumpeting cries ring out, to fool man and beast alike,
and those who live in the mountains wonder,
is the cry one of a wild eerie wind howling
along rocky hills and ridge-tops of this highland land?
Or is it the cry of a Ghost?

Through lashes of rain-driven mist and fog,
hovering along the Munro’s,
the stallion, with nimble feet,
swift in every way, gallops into the silver air.
He goes, an outline of rain, with him no bounds,
no rules; free and adventurous.

They follow him, and still
he leaves no trace of his existence.
Over ridge-tops, into forests, cunning and wise,
not to be seen, nor to be tracked.
Rebellious, prancing, the stallion goes on,
proudly tossing his fine head, arching his fine neck.

Beautiful, determined to stay forever free,
like the very lands on which he roams.
Those who see him say they've seen a Ghost;
disappearing; reappearing.

(C)2010 Samantha Donaldson