MUSTANG: a poem by Eppo Numan

PM Sage #0399 PVC March 25, 2014 B

The call of an early morning crawls over the land and holds me still, ultimate claimant of divine serenity, it stare’s me down!

But wait a minute, am I not the onlooker here?

Scraping hooves and whimpered neighing, tributaries from valiant hearts fluster the silent lay of this land from behind the fenced enclosure. Wild pounding rumble of dazed, yet frenzied nobles snorting solid toughness. 

… Stampede!

Jubilee of the unruly escapee, melt-down of exploding hooves fragments the scene; a free flowing surge of coiling manes and the taste of slow-motion fill the air. A roll-on cry for space and freedom is violently plastered into this primordial landscape.

The wind will not stop – – but it had!

Nailed to the land a brief moment I stand in awe, entrusted to its tranquil features, not even a moment ago its blustering strength, herald to an array of unnerving whirring and indigenous odd callings had taken me aback.

The wind will not stop – – but it had!

From this pristine and fog-hugged land a stifled grunt arises. Hooves detonate the snow, flung aside in angry temperament like shrapnel in an Arab roadside device. Yellow teeth speak of wild nonsense, sound-bites and pumice-like froth propel from the scene.

The rumble and clamour of this rogue stampede reaches me with joy. This heaven-sent rumbustious stand-off makes me yell and scream; “burn low and long your longing my regal friends, run wild a thousand miles or more”. Zany vanguards to the jiving wind your foals.

From leathered lips a livid dribble seeps, plants once talked to me and told me this.

© Eppo Harbrink Numan – The Hague, October/November 2010