The Harbinger

I was smoking out in the cattleyard

When I heard a thunderous sound,

Beating a path from the mountainside

And shaking the very ground,

Then a horse appeared with a flying mane

It must have been eighteen hands,

Black as a barrel of bitumen,

Hooves clattering over the land.

 

It was almost night, but the stars were bright

As the stallion galloped by,

I saw my neighbour over the way

Let out a jubilant cry:

‘Have you ever seen horseflesh great as that?’

And flung his hat in the air,

‘He’s not a local from Oodnaarat,

A horse like that is rare.’

 

The horse had galloped into the woods

Its hoofbeats faded away,

‘I’d give a fortune to hitch that horse

Up to my bullock dray!’

I said that that was an awful waste,

‘I’d set him up for the track,

He’d mow them down like a gatling gun,

All they would see is his back.’

 

For days we argued and pondered on

The whereabouts of the horse,

‘He must belong to one of the farms

Way down by the watercourse.’

‘I think he may be a feral, strayed

From the high country, out there,

If he comes again we can run him down,

And check for a brand or scar.’

 

‘Brand or not, if I run him down

He’s mine,’ said Jimmy the Whip,

He’d once been a tough midshipman, serving

Out on a whaling ship,

He’d earned the name for the way he’d whipped

His dogs and his horse in line,

We only chattered over the fence,

He wasn’t a friend of mine.

 

The stallion thundered up from the woods,

Going the other way,

We’d kept a lookout from noon to dusk

For a week and almost a day,

Our horses, already saddled up

We whipped the reins from the bar,

Leapt to saddle and galloped away

On the tail of the horse of tar.

 

He ran us ragged over the farm

Cut over the bottom field,

He took the fence in a single leap

And showed us a pair of heels,

We both flew over the wire in one

And managed to stay intact,

While he sped over the barley field

To head for the bullock track.

 

His hooves were throwing up clods of dirt

His tail was raised in the chase,

Our horses battled to breathe the air

It was really a one horse race,

We chased him almost an hour by rocks

And over a dry creek bed,

He turned aside just over a hill

And stopped by an old farm shed.

 

A girl in a long white dress came out

And patted the horse’s flank,

He towered over the girl, and stared

As we rode up, over the bank,

I saw that Jimmy the Whip was mad,

I thought, he won’t be denied,

He’s going to claim that wonder horse

For leading him such a ride.

 

He pulled a gun from his saddle pack

And aimed it square at its neck,

I tried to stop him but Jimmy snarled,

‘He’s mine, I’ve come to collect!’

The girl raised one of her hands on high

And muttered, ‘You’re out of line!

For Jet’s not merely a mountain horse,

He’s a harbinger of time!’

 

Our horses suddenly fell to their knees

And bowed to the noble horse,

While round about us sprang up a breeze

That whirled with a sudden force,

It knocked the gun right out of his grip

And a voice crept up from the sand,

‘All that you know is to pull a gun

At things you don’t understand!’

 

The girl got up on the horse’s back

And cantered into the night,

The Moon was gone and the stars went out

And soon they were out of sight.

We didn’t speak as we rode back down

But Jimmy the Whip was sore,

He’d lie in wait for that monster horse

With a rifle, close to his door.

 

I never saw it again myself

But I think that I heard it neigh,

It gave me a chill to think that horse

Was time, and running away;

Then Jimmy fell into a Harvester

That cut off his head and hands,

His time had galloped away with him

On the harbinger of the damned!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Marc Marlon Villaflor]

When I'm reading this poem, it is like I am watching a fantasy movie, very captivating, I enjoyed visualizing the details of words you expressed. Vividly marked in my mind, this story is engaging I can felt every words of it. You draw me in this dynamic, whimsical fantastic story and I ejoyed it. Another great work of Mr. David Lewis Paget!

[TL Boehm]

Good Lord! What an ending. An amazing piece of poetry, Friend.

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Almost seeks to punish those that don't believe, a well written piece.

[Tate Morgan]

I said that that was an awful waste,

‘I’d set him up for the track,

He’d mow them down like a gatling gun,

All they would see is his back.’

Loved this part.I often wonder where you get these wild imaginings. However they are certainly entertaining . Lost to the sands of time will be all of our futures. But in time perhaps others will find us in some unused archive and revive the dreams we once had.Left there for posterity.

[Randolf Ramos]

For me you are genius in prose poems. To create a story out of rhymes that is genius.

[Veronica Chandler]

Jimmy got his due I'd say and time does surely tell...
I feel like I am in the presence of writer royalty; I am sincerely not just flinging compliments David. If you were a friend, in front of me right now I would literally bow in jest as I said, "I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy." If I didn't find your work so inspiring, I would probably have to have a ceremony and bury my quill.

[Michael Corkill]

A very interesting journey. Well written. Would be a great read around the campfire! ..........................................................................................................................................................................................It is a great work! I have yet to be less than amazed at any work that I have read from you. .................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Come over and read some of my work too. Right now I have a few poems up and a story or two. check out the stories. The current poems are probable not your genre's of choice as they are romantic mostly, but I am going to post more work here soon. Would love to hear @ your experiance here I am new here and to have a writer that is as good as you stick around awhile is a really good sign that this is a great site. Anyway great job!

[Clayton Bardwell]

Well, Jimmie's lucky the Harvester claimed him before I got my hands on his scrawny soul.

There's a black like that that runs the high country about 12,000 feet. He's all alone with the Bristlecone and they say he was a ranchers ride. Not 18 hands, not by a long shot, but tall just the same.

The chills started in my left arm about the time the girl in the long white dress showed up. Worked their way down both legs, they did.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Reminds me of the old Westerns. :-)

[Valentine]

David, a very good read and I loved the ending..he got just what he deserved..some wild things need to be left wild and free..One cannot pen up everything it sees just because it is special..Kathie