Centaurs
Far from the myths of Greece
POETRY
Hooves throw up dry dirt.
I dream, these must be Centaurs.
Half horse and half man,
Two beings forged as one.
Each step calculated,
Every stride filled with strength.
Their name that of myth,
Forgotten image without trace.
Then dust engulfs their silhouette,
As memories grow hazy.
They move beyond the great horizon,
Pushing mustangs to fresh daisies.
What did we see? This is not Greece,
Nor the skyline that of Troy.
And they may call them Centaurs,
But we just say Cowboys.