http://www.elfwood.com/art/s/a/sammons/crytaur.jpg.html Property David Sammons.
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Your hooves fresh stamp in fields by green, dark blood,
where lithest serpents twist to writhe and sting;
your words to me, now clay, impressed in mud.
And your horse pheromones fly on the wing.
A wintry sun shines on pastures to eat,
nought else; your hair flows free, drives me insane
with you, your capers, merely me, to greet ?
You glean then stomp fine flour from ripened grain.
I watch you bake it, O Pure Locks, for hours.
I bring you wine from caverns cool, late found
twelve of Thesally dreamed, and guarding knew
young Alexander pass while they slept sound.
Kick up hind legs, Pure Locks, shake off wild birds;
never tire of lover's whisp'ring words.
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Gold trophy winner
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