rhiannon, white horse, dead king, wales


Glory be to thee Rhiannon
And all your comely locks,
With face a flushed like apple skins
From nights out in the stocks
Your skin is weathered orange-brown,
Your eyes are ocean blue,
Your horse is white like heaven's gate,
Your grass a greener hue
Let us ride this land together,
This land of hills and rains,
Until we find the summertime
And break old winter's chains
Hear these words I pray Rhiannon,
For I am seldom seen;
A dead king in a peasant skin
Is no sight for a queen.

© Severn Dwyer. 2009

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