A Tall Tale And The Flying Wheat Tail 

It was long, long ago when I sat on my father’s lap,
to hear a bedtime story; one of the many he told.
Tales of a valiant lad, who fought for his land’s glory,
or the mischievous doe, or the girl so fair,
her hair so long, she used it to sweep the story.
But the sweetest to my ear was about a little horse.
And though I’d heard it many times before,
the ending was different each time it was told.

Tell me about the horse with the long, long, tail,
“And… once upon the time…” my father said,
with a rock and a pat, my head close to his heart,
“there was a little white horse… with...”
“No Dad, the horse was yellow…” I said.
“So it was yellow and had a long… long… tail,
and his name was… Yellow Horse.”
And as my father spoke, Yellow Horse, as real as
a story horse could be, came to me gently
gliding through the sky on a filmy cloud of smoke.
A tiny little horse, with long feathery lashes,
eyes as black as the night, blazing silver as the stars.
But his mane was not yellow at all.
It was the color of wheat, creamy and pale,
swept gently by the breeze,
and so I gave him a new name: *Trigal!
I called him aloud, and he turned to look at me,
and shook his mane as if having understood,
in as close to a horsy wave as he could.
He just stood on his vaporous cloud,
and without making a sound, his eyes
beckoned me to come forward for a closer look.
He lowered his front legs inviting me to climb.
I held my legs fast around his body, bent forward,
and clung tightly to his neck, my face next to his mane –
“You smell like thyme,” I said politely.
Trigal stepped off the little cloud and began to gallop
with me on his back, holding fast, my eyes closed, laughing aloud!
Ran faster, faster, as I held on tighter and tighter – filling the silence with laughter.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, though I didn’t hear.
“Did you speak, Trigal?” He didn’t respond.
My storybook horse sped across the meadow,
splashing as he raced through the brook,
his mane tangled with petals – purple, red and yellow,
he was faster than lightening, and soon, his long, long, tail
spread like feathery wings of wheat, and he began to fly.
We were way above the clouds, gliding gently through the sky.
“Do you like this?” He asked.
Again, though I knew what he said, I never heard a sound.
“How do you speak, horsy? Why can’t I hear your voice?”
He slowly turned to face me, and looked right into my eyes.
I saw my face reflected in his black, shiny gaze, and I knew,
his thoughts – my thoughts to be one and the same.
“Where are we going, Trigal?”
“Somewhere left of the moon, and south of the morning star.”
"Is that very far?”
“No! We’re here in fact.”
And a riveting sight, it was; castles made of chocolate,
trees laden with sugar puffs, bathtubs filled with cream,
hair ribbons made of fluff, children dancing in the street,
mothers singing soothing rhymes, rocking little ones to sleep.
It was the land of imagination, my horsy said,
where thoughts and dreams come alive.
“What do you fancy – how do you see yourself, lass?”
“I like to dance!” And no sooner said…
Just like magic I was dancing, twirling, pirouetting in the sky!
“Look at me. I can dance! Swirling, whirling through the air!”
But I stopped, when I saw Trigal turning back.
He smiled at me, and his lashes fanned a goodbye.
“Don’t leave me horsy, don’t – I want to go home!”
“You are home, silly girl, imagining your life.”
“No! I’m left of the moon, south of the morning star.”
“Well, that’s just where I found you: asleep on your father’s lap.” 

* Trigal = Spanish for field of wheat.

Carmen Ruggero © 2004 

This is part of a work in progress. All comments are most welcome. -- Carmen