About Centaurs
When I was young, I think
I thought I was a horse.
Not this flimsy biped thing
with its top-heavy, head-in-air
by way of a - big-mouth - rider.
For the horse was wild at that;
at least un-schooled, ill-mannered,
headstrong, wilful,
unbridled despite its bridle,
with the bit clenched between teeth, jaw-set on its runaway race
to the heights and holes it would fall into,
kicking up its heels as it went.
What a lovesome beast!
Free, indomitable and strong.
Impulse rather than mindfulness
its dharma.
Yet, when out-of-hand,
what a liability!
Nov