I was dreaming,
One summer’s eve.
Of wild wings
And wild things.

When I was awakened,
By a rapping on my window.
Yet no trees were there,
Nor were there shutters.

I climbed out of bed,
So warm and comfortable,
To the window,
Cool with evening light.

And standing there,
There was a man,
Tall and muscled,
Dark and foreboding.

Silver eyes pierced the dark,
And gleaming black hair
Shone bright,
Like polished ebony.

He stood widely,
Power definite
As he walked closer,
Until I could see his face.

What he was doing there,
I knew not.
For never in my life,
Had I seen such a man.

He called out my name,
In a voice deep and seductive.
Asking if I may
Join him in the starlight.

He disappeared as soon
As the words
He had uttered,
Left his mouth.

Only a flutter of leaves,
A shivering of moonlight.
My bare arms
Turned to gooseflesh.

As I turned to get into bed,
A wild neigh
Pierced the unearthly silence
Made by this stranger.

I looked out the window,
And this black-garbed man,
Sat astride
A stallion as black as his master’s cloak.

Rearing, this animal
Crashed forward until
Underneath my window was he
And one arm raised to me.

Those silver pools of light,
Gazed up at me in question
And I trembled
But not from the cold.

I grabbed a long robe,
And slipped on some shoes,
I opened the window wide,
And climbed to my destiny.

One arm,
Strongly muscled
Wrapped around my waist,
And I gasped in recognition.

No, not because I knew him,
But of the power,
Of the desire and love
Between woman and man.

The stallion surged forward
Throwing me against
The stranger’s muscled chest,
The man’s arm tightening around me.

Like black lightning,
The steed sped across the fields,
Seeming to fly
Over hill and valley.

The stonewall of my father’s land
Loomed ahead of this flying horse.
The deep, seductive voice of this man
Whispered to me to hold on.

Before I could say another word,
We were over the wall,
And flying once again,
Over the pastures.

I awoke the next morn,
Sleeping in my bed.
I would have believed
I had dreamt the whole thing.

Was it not for my tangled hair,
The missing shoe,
The torn robe,
Or the deep red rose that lay upon my pillow.