White horses charge the coastline,
unchecked by bit or rein.
Unchastened and unbridled,
they cannot be constrained.

Their flowing manes fly windswept
above the ocean's roar --
these stallions made of sea foam,
that pound the rocky shore.

I yearn to mount one bareback,
all caution cast aside,
but I am far too chary
to take that rousing ride.

I stand upon the shoreline,
and watch white horses range.
I long to join their stampede
but fear I'll never change.