Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Where we played as kids.
Am I dreaming?
Sitting at that kitchen table,
or maybe that old wooden table,
where I wrote so many songs when I was starting out.
Trying to scrape meaning
from three chords,
and a life as yet unlived.
Cup of coffee,
maybe a tea,
or something stronger.
Looking into my father’s eyes,
gone now,
but back for just a moment.
I wonder if he would still be disappointed in me.
I wonder if he would see me, for who I am,
for what I’ve made,
my struggles.
Would it really matter?
Would we just sit,
for a moment,
and understand each other,
just a little better now?
A nod of the head,
and we part.
Pale horse,
running through the woods at night,
down the old trails where they never built the houses.
Disappearing, back into the night.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
