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 I’d heard night after night after night.
Father knew tales of a valiant lad who fought for his land’s glory,
or the mischievous doe, or the girl so fair—so
long was
her hair, she used it to sweep the story.
But the sweetest to my ear was the one about a little horse.
And though I’d heard it many times before,
the ending was different each time it was told.
“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.” .
But the sweetest to my ear was the one about a little horse.
And though I’d heard it many times before,
the ending was different each time it was told.
“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.” .
“So it was
yellow and had a long … long … tail
and his name was … Yellow Horse.”
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.
He was a tiny little horse with long feathery lashes and
eyes 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.
And so I gave him a new name: *Trigal!
a story horse could be, came to me gently
gliding through the sky on a filmy cloud of smoke.
He was a tiny little horse with long feathery lashes and
eyes 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.
And so I gave him a new name: *Trigal!
I called
him aloud. 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 stood on his vaporous cloud
and his eyes beckoned me to come 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!
He 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 his voice.
“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, I knew what he said, but never heard a sound.
“How do you speak, horsy? Why can’t I hear your voice?”
He slowly turned to face me, and when he looked into my eyes,
I saw my face reflected in his black, shiny gaze and 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, lulling little ones to sleep.
It was the land of imagination, my horsy said.
“What do you fancy—how do you see yourself, lass?”
“I like to dance!” And no sooner said … just like magic,
and shook his mane as if having understood,
in as close to a horsy wave as he could.
He stood on his vaporous cloud
and his eyes beckoned me to come 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!
He 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 his voice.
“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, I knew what he said, but never heard a sound.
“How do you speak, horsy? Why can’t I hear your voice?”
He slowly turned to face me, and when he looked into my eyes,
I saw my face reflected in his black, shiny gaze and 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, lulling little ones to sleep.
It was the land of imagination, my horsy said.
“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 through the sky!
“Look at me. I can dance!”
But
I stopped when I saw Trigal turning back. “Look at me. I can dance!”
He smiled at me and with 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 © 2010 – 2011 – 2012
