The Feral Muse (6)

She unlooped the halter from the high strength of the neck

And the arch of the storm-cloud mane hung with live darkness. He stood: she crushed her breasts

On the hard shoulder, an arm over the withers, the other under the mass of his throat, and murmuring

Like a mountain dove, “If I could bear you.” No way, no help, a gulf in nature. She murmured, “Come,

We will run on the hill. O beautiful, O beautiful,” and led him

To the gate and flung the bars on the ground. He threw his head downward

To snuff at the bars; and while he stood, she catching mane and withers with all sudden contracture

And strength of her lithe body, leaped, clung hard, and was mounted. He had been ridden before; he did not

Fight the weight but ran like a stone falling.