I learnt to ride in Mongolia one October
on a nameless horse;
it hated me
for the whole one hundred and twenty
we had a fractious relationship.
Each morning it challenged me
with a steely glare,
eating breakfast, packing my tent,
approaching it to mount.
It often tried to scrape me off
against the nearest tree.
On the third day we broke into a gallop
surprising both of us,
I held on
Watching green hills blur
under a clear blue sky
It was an eventful journey.
If you have any comments on this poem, George Fripley
would be pleased to hear from you.