Was it Lascaux in France where we met first,
drawn to one another in ancient cave as lightning
flashed through moonless skies?

Or was it in the hills of southern Spain,
the scent of spices in the air – we were traders, yes?

When or where I do know not know, but horses,
black-maned and powerful, always appear, galloping
through my mind whenever my spirit rides back to you.
Then, my body remembers your force

thrust against me, and I surrender to the memory
of you moving through me like wild winds shifting,
enveloping hundreds of horses stampeding toward freedom and
release. Yes… And then they graze in gentle, seaside breezes.

Yes! Again, wild horses - mustangs kicking up dust,
bearing us along toward a resplendent western sky
as sun rounds the outer curve of Mother Earth’s hip.
We lay nestled against her gentle bosom, limbs entwined.

On an Irish hillside in the rain… we whisper temporary goodbyes, plan a future time when we will recall days
of thunder, nights lit by flashes of insight. 

Wild horses rise up from the fog of our growing distance,
and we know that one day we will remember again.