Clifford Franklin Gessler

From “The Villager”

OFTEN, in clear winter afternoons or crisp fall mornings,

Walking long stretches of sand where waves charge in proudly,

Or standing on curving walls, looking out over empty water,

I am aware of the memory of you and your horses—

Prancing bays, proud roans, and wild white horses;

Your laughter syncopating the hoof-beats of horses,

Pounding on clay turf-land or drumming on long white roads.

Standing at the forks of the river at Orleans Street,

Watching the ice dip up and down in the oily water—

Big gray and white lake birds circling slowly slantwise over the water,

A tug with smoke-stack down for bridges,

And two engines coughing out of time with each other—

I ride again with the memory of you and your horses,

Of you mounting a flight of steps on a glossy black,

Riding down a railroad track to meet me on a deep-chested bay.

And the sound of your laughter comes to me over the backs of horses,

The memory of your hair streaming with the manes of horses,

Your firm brown hand flung out in the crowding of horses,

Greeting me over the necks of wild white horses, galloping home.