Sonnet XIV

 

Hurry, hurry be; the night is dank, I’m late,

My journey is a long, a dozen-mile in length,

And my magical mistress Claire - will she wait?

My mare is bitter tempy; she bucks my strength,

But the bit beneath her teeth is firmly wedged

And her reigns, gripp’d tight beneath my digits,

Give firm control o’er her path, for t’is sharp-edged,

Dizzy drops, harr’wing hazards; still she fidgets,

‘Til we’re in silver-touch’d fields; as we gallop,

My time-thinn’d thoughts turn to Claire – will she still be up?

And, lulled by the mare’s rhythmic motion,

I’m struck by a curious notion,

            I am not the rider, but the mare,

And the rider – is my mistress, Claire.