Night Mare

From My fertile ocean depths,

I race as foamy mares,

stampeding, in waves of change,

wrapping the Celtic shores

in My blue mantle, salt as sweat.

I leap, all manes and tails in the storm,

eyes flashing lightning,

hooves striking thunder.

If I should ride, Night Mare, into your bed,

leap on My back with eager thanks.

I will take you connecting milky dots

of mighty Rhiannon among the stars,

whirl you away to kiss

the dry salt cheek of the Moon.

You will wake seat-sore,

pregnant with beauty,

with your hair flung tousled on your pillow,

My mane's hoar-hair

wound tight around your fingers.

Call Me: Macha, Morgana, Morrigan!

Call Me Epona of the many names!

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018