A Rider on a Steed

A rider on a steed
On a snowy hill
In the distance
On the dark horizon.

Rider and steed, still on the hill,
Dark phantoms against the snow
Lit by a midnight moon
In a slate-black sky.

There are many hills
Twixt me and the steed,
Hills of fresh snow,
Hills of frigid nights.

With no movement and no sound
From the reluctant rider,
The steed turns towards me
And takes off o'er the hills.

In an instant the steed
Reaches top speed
And is sprinting towards me,
Bounding o'er the hills.

I watch the steed near,
Effortless in its grace,
A black cloud, a black mist,
A black fog surging in.

Each hoof is tipped with black nickel
And shod with sterling silver.
The powerful hooves pound through the snow
And smash into the stone beneath.

Each step a symphony of thunder,
Each step a flash of lightning
From the sterling shoes
Against the cold granite of the hoary earth.

The mighty steed's feet
Destroy the granite and kick the dust to the air.
Snow as well joins,
And the union falls to the ground.

The steed's nostrils flare,
And fires burn within them.
Ever closer is the magnificent beast,
And the rider still remains silent as the mountains.

The steed--a machine with a heartbeat,
With muscles hard as iron,
Singular in their purpose,
Singular in their intent.

The muscles, more powerful than the universe,
The sinews, with strength beyond strength,
Ripple beneath the finest coat of liquid black,
A coat that reflects the moonlight.

The mane descends like the night sky;
The tail flows like an ancient river.
The chrome of the roiling snow
Sparkles like the tears of the mournful.

The steed is now upon me
And stops in an instant.
Though this beautiful creature towers above me,
There is no fear in my heart.

The steed makes not a sound
And flinches not at all.
Not one muscle twitches.
The winds dare not touch mane nor tail.

The steed's breath comes easily,
As if the beast had not just raced
Over many hills through the snow.
No fire; no smoke.

As if bowing to me, the steed lowers its head,
And I look into its eyes,
Eyes as clear as ice, black as sables,
And deep as an ultramarine winter sky.

I look up to the rider,
A rider wrapped in a dark woolen cloak
But with no warmth and no motion,
A rider with no reins and no saddle.

The rider has no face,
No name,
No voice,
No breath.

The steed raises its head,
Rears back, and takes to the sky,
Each stride a symphony of thunder,
Each stride a flash of lightning.

And as the steed disappears from my sight,
I'm left alone again
In the snow on a hill,
And I begin to weep...

---

Originally written:    February 1, 2003; February 8, 2003
Put online:    February 8, 2003
Discussion:    This poem is full of symbolism. The steed (which was intentionally left asexual) represents Death. The rider represents a dead person. Therefore, this is a poem about Death carrying off its latest victim. The fact that the rider has no reins and no saddle shows that the rider is not in control; Death is. In this poem, Death passes me by this time, but the fact that I begin to weep at the end shows that I know Death will be back, for though there are many hills between me and Death (i.e. time), it arrives perhaps too quickly and perhaps seemingly unfairly. Furthermore, Death is respectful ("as if bowing to me"), majestic, dignified, and powerful, and the experience of dying is graceful and magnificent and should not be feared. The poem was created after I had a dream with much of the same imagery as this poem during the night of January 28-29, 2003. I actually woke up from the dream crying (as a side note, this dream also contained the number 647, a number which I believe indicates I will die in June, 2047). Various lines were then written as they came to me in the following few days. Much of the poem was brainstormed and noted at 80 MPH on the freeway after an appointment for work.


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