Whispers on the Wind

by Foehn

Rating: everyone
Tags:
Length: 1576

A collection of odds-and-ends pony poetry and prose.

A collection of odds-and-ends pony poetry and prose.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-07 02:48:04 UTC

2. Dream a Little Dream - The Old Stallion

The old stallion calls me

Out of fear of unrest,

and the unknown.

He needn’t have bothered;

The dream is restless

And I walk alone

In a land of strangers.

The Mooken

Dream of their goddess

Dayang Dayang Mangilai

And her sacred dangkan tree

Each blossom, they say, each leaf

Tells a story

Joined by so many

Vines and branches all tangled

together.

And they speak of their great

Kalamats

The most skilful, it is said

Could trace by moonlight

The ways and paths between

And in doing so,

Illuminate for themselves

The dreams of others

I am no god

Nor have I ever known a goddess

Save the Sun and Moon.

Yet dreams do not lie.

I behold the tree:

It is dead.

Its branches are gone

Its trunk is gone

And its roots are covered

In thorns of the thousand

Black roses that ensnared it,

Sapped it of its life,

And died themselves:

Their petals form a stygian carpet

Upon the grave.

There is another tree,

Sprouting from the

Broken limbs of the first

And it lives

And branch by branch

I can follow it

And trace its stories

I step closer and the         dream

bends

around

me

A lily, wilted

And in its place

A rose, black without

But a bloodier shade within

A rose by any other name

Is just as cruel;

Littlemoth

Palei Hantu

Changeling

why don’t they suspect me yet

i had no choice i was starving

knew i couldn’t hide amongst

the two-legs but all the others were

dead

and i couldn’t pass the Wall

for fear of being

trapped

too risky they said

the two-legs can see

the things between

and will see you too

i took the risk

A bluebell droops over

The roses’ head

Leaning ever

Closer

I am a dedicated bull, Palei Hantu.

When I caught you bedding my brother

and you ran from his hut

of course they found out

i was stupid, desperate

but not dead like the others

why did he chase me

to the Wall of all places

even we avoid that place

perhaps he knew and thought

he’d trap me outside

i took another risk

and though spotted by

the Myinn guard

who sat up startled

after you vaulted the rampart

shouted and flung his spear at me

a quick confounding and

the guard was none the wiser

i had to find someone to replace

too many eyes and ears on the wall

i slunk away found one

with wings of skin and grey

i was so careless i had no time

her body thrown off the

docks

All around a chorus

of whispers

answers:

The lines between

dreams

blur

and though i feed

upon them

drew the gazes of the room

like a lightning-bug upon a darkened stage

and the foolish guard

until Dawn Patrol fluttered to her flame

and another

as our tangled bodies

sung carnal hymns

to each other

i know

it won’t last

i know

they'll find her

any day now

i'm trapped again

where are the boats

where

are

the

boats

The question

Rings out;

The whispers

Are silent

Confused

And waiting

A dawn lotus

floats

in the black rose’s

shadow;

It’s petals

All the darker

It answers;

I listen

Littlemoth

dances behind my eyelids. I can’t let them get

her

Can’t let them know because as soon as they do they’ll chase them and they’ll come after

her

and the others. I can’t stop the ships forever, but if I can find a moment alone with

her

I’ll flee with

her

As soon as I can get

her

alone

At the thought

Of the ships, the

dangkan responds:

A creeper

girdles the

tree trunk

choking

the life

of an

emerald

limb

Majority refuses to answer                                                                                                                                 The boats have stopped and I

when we ask him why the                                                                                                                                           do not know why or who

boats have stopped coming                                                                                                                                         is responsible only that it

I suspect something                                                                                                                                             means more raised voices and

is going on; that we are not                                                                                                                                        more raised voices means

being told the truth or rather                                                                                                                                     dissent and complaints and

Majority is not telling the truth                                                                                                                           Peridot always was the loudest

Where is the money going                                                                                                                                     She doesn’t trust me nor I her

no trade and yet he                                                                                                                                             I knew the old witch never could

refuses to lower the taxes                                                                                                                                 be trusted to know her place and

he demands a skeleton                                                                                                                                         even if she does not suspect my

crew (let’s face it: our                                                                                                                                              deceptions (and I suspect that

garrison is nearly empty                                                                                                                                        she does) she’s too much of an

if one discounts the                                                                                                                                                influence stirring up the wrong

drunks and tuft-ears)                                                                                                                                               kind of trouble you have to be

needs not the funds                                                                                                                                              careful a whisper in one ear and

he’s been hiding he says                                                                                                                                      poison in the other is the way to

a ship’s come in down at the docks                                                                                                                      do it not screaming in front of a

I don’t believe him of course                                                                                                                             full hall though blaming the tuft-

but I’m not sleeping so where’s                                                                                                                       ears now that’s an idea I’ll have to

the harm in confronting the                                                                                                                                off her and make do with what’s

old sod                                                                                                                                                                                                        to come

Feck 'em both.

Gonna wake me up

by trippin' over me

at half past midnight

stumblin' toward the docks

Silence                                                                                                                                                                 easier done than said in the end

surrounds and                                                                                                                                                         blame her death on the kelpies

I merely wish                                                                                                                                                           now that’s the thing maybe a

I had known                                                                                                                                                               speech to pull us all together

that that                                                                                                                                                                       shaming those tuft-ears into

was what                                                                                                                                                                     pulling their load should be

I wanted                                                                                                                                                                     popular with the merchants

Enough.

I step away and the         dream

breaks

around

me.

The tree stands still again

Its limbs singing

Of world brought to ruin

For the want of vengeance

And safe harbour;

In the name of love

And righteous suspicion

Born of greed;

And death born

Of greed

Giving birth to

Unfounded suspicion

In the name of unfounded

Hatred

Until all the blossoms one by one

Wilt and fall

In a flaky rain that

Covers the carpet of thorns

Upon which the tree rests

The rain

               will not

                            stop until

                                             all of the

                                                             branches

                                                                             are bare

Perhaps Dayang Dayang Mangilai

was no goddess

But a pony

Condemned to

Watch

The mistakes of others

Powerless

To stop the fall of all she held dear

And I know, now

What great lament she cried

When she saw  the

Very roots by which

Her tree grew and spread

Its limbs, were the agents

Of its long undoing

Peridot is dead and I

will not

mourn her passing.

And yet I wonder:

For this, will I

fall with them?

Dawn comes, and I must

Leave this dream for the other

Though my thoughts linger

On that final flower.

Know this, Majority:

There

will

yet

be

a

reckoning.

She stands

By the docks

Refusing to answer

The voice of the dangkan

And a cloudless sky.

Far above

The pale moon

Whispers:

“We will meet again

before you die.”

1. Rhapsody

A mare stands in an empty room. At night-time. There’s a full moon, and it’s snowing. She’s playing a string instrument. Any string instrument. A violin. A viola. A cello. It doesn’t matter. There’s nobody to hear it.

The crackling of a new log in the old fireplace.

A mare continues to play her viola. A whole sonata. Wordless. Eyes closed. Ears open. Listening.

An old stallion in his chair, creaking as he gazes fondly at two foals asleep on a couch. A pegasus winging through the night, starlight playing off his frantic motions. A colt walking through the silent streets, leaving hoofprints in the snow. In the distance, there is music.

He pauses.

In a room – any room – a mare stands, playing. Her violin sings. Firelight traces her form as she steps, this way and that, dancing between the shadows. The smell of smoke. The grit of dust and dirt beneath hooves. The chill of winter through an open window. A mare. Any mare.

A mother in a white apron, with soot on one corner and something smeared across the other. A filly, restless, watching a colt walk by from between shuttered blinds. A mare, sleeping. Fitfully. Dreaming of fire and brimstone, and whole mountains and oceans that peel away, until there’s nothing but her and a wall covered in the scrawl of a half-empty marker pen.

A mare stands in an empty room. The paint is peeling. A fugue, half finished, scrawled in pen. In her hooves, a cello sings. A whole cantata. A whole choir. Breathless. Voiceless. On one string. The mare listens.

An old postcard on the mantelpiece, its picture faded only in her memory. The smell of warm pastries on cold mornings, held tight in hoof. The old clock marking the midnight hour, ringing out promises of warm daylight and a new tomorrow

In an empty room, a mare pauses. Fingers of moonlight dapple her coat. She listens. Hoofsteps below. Wingbeats above. Creaking adjacent. Shutters closed, doors locked, fires crackling. And for a moment –

She opens her eyes.

In a crowded room, a mare resumes. The song has changed.

And it is heard.

A colt walks down an empty street at night-time, through the snow, in the moonlight, in the starlight, past the bakery, hoofprints in his wake, listening to the sound of a violin in an empty room.

He likes the music.