Soledad, Soledad, blood thicker than water, rides her night horse toward the place where the river gives itself to the sea, where love builds a fire and waits under the swimming stars and the fish rise phosphorescent from the waves, and the sky floats timeless clear to the sunrise as tomorrow races toward her from the other side of the world Your grandmother is coming over tomorrow, maybe you can come home early and help me with dinner. On and on she rides to meet her lover, his letter folded and pressed against her heart, meet me by the sea at the delta where the river bed flows against the shore, my love, and never be lonely forevermore. There was some mail for you, I left it on the telephone stand in the hall.
Green road lyrics broken roads skin#
Watch your elbow! Oh never mind, I’ll get a towel.ĭew settles on her skin and she shivers but on she rides, on and on to meet her lover by the sea. Honey, your brother finished off the green beans, would you like a salad?ĭown, always downhill she rides towards the sea, through meadows scented with mint and basil, under the forest’s dark canopy, beside a rushing stream where her horse dips his head to drink.
Soledad rides her silver horse down the steep and rocky trail under a gypsy moon, stars swimming over her head like minnows
Green road lyrics broken roads windows#
I immersed myself in a very physical world of sweat and flies and shit and that sweet horse smell, knowing but not noticing that I was chasing a mystery, living a metaphor, following an instinct as I saddled the Arab mare I called Rocco and rode out on the trails after chores, believing for the moment I was Soledad, the gypsy girl, blood thicker than water, riding out to meet her lover, opening my shirt as far as I dared, my hair long and tangled in the wind, and Rocco wise and understanding, leading me out the trails farther and farther, keeping me out until the barn windows were yellow as we came back across the dusty fields and Colleen McManahan was annoyed and later, at home, my mother would have to reheat the meatloaf while I showered. And so, in spite of Mrs Morrison’s next poem, in which “the little horse must think it queer,” I volunteered at McManahan’s Stables, mucking stalls, pitching hay, hauling water, currying coats, picking hooves, working with horses that bucked and bolted and shook the earth and that responded to me. It was not the teenage boys with their diffuse atomic particles and dirty minds, not the comic book outline cartoon of high school, or the ribcage of family life. I listened as she read on, not to the poem, but to the motion of blood in my veins, the wakening of what I couldn’t locate in my brain, a yearning for something fierce and profound and dark and holy and profane and as yet unavailable.
It was the restless melancholy in those words that matched the restless melancholy in me, a timeless, incarnate vision that startled something secret wide open. And then I heard Mrs Morrison say the words “white horse grazing near the river dust” and all my hair stood up. I could hear the boy in the seat behind me digging a hole in his desktop with a ballpoint pen. There was a map of the world pinned crooked on the cork board. I was seventeen and bored in class, gazing out the window while my English teacher, Mrs Morrison, an ageless, sexless crone with glasses, droned on and on and on. I fell in love with horses when I heard a poem by Lorca. Black crow sitting on a whitewashed fenceĭrive all night until I can’t see straight
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