Rhiannon's Ride

Moon-rider,

your white horse carries you

across the heavens.

Your hair flows like rivers of milk,

your song like silver rain.

The night bends beneath you,

and every field glows pale

as your steed passes.

Even the owls hush,

their wings folded in awe.

You are not goddess alone,

but lament—

each hoofbeat echoing loss,

each glance a promise

never kept.

Rhiannon, I have followed you

through dream and meadow.

But your road is not mine.

It rises into sky,

a path only the dead may tread.

Still, I lift my hand

as you pass,

and your shadow brushes me—

soft as blessing,

sharp as farewell.