It gathers pearly mist to itself
Taking shape
From formlessness
Glistening, shimmering,
More than fog
And less than substance
It raises its head
Golden light glints off a spiral horn

In form a horse
But nobler
Without a steed's sturdy pride
Or his aristocratic arrogance
Beautiful, mysterious, pure.
It moves
With the delicate gliding flow
Of the sun on dappled leaves
As it wheels through the heavens
Its gait is graceful,
Its hide silky and soft.
Fleet of stride and wind,
It passes as the spring breeze
Gently kissing the flowers awake
In the early morning sunshine

It is a creature of mist
Of myth,
Of legend,
Of dream
Of magic
Yet it is more real
In belief
Than the truest
Reality.