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.
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Author Notes
Thanks to Charles Keith, who in commenting upon my cat's paws haiku about gently rippling waves, told me there are other waves known as white horses. I immediately looked this up and found out white horses are larger waves that have their crests broken when blown by the wind so that they appear white. I knew right away I had to write a poem about white horses, a fantastic image.
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