The River

A canal, far away, was built many years ago for the ships' passage between two oceans. A river, near me, slowly flows, floats the barges. And, years ago, this dove- colored river was open for the wars. Today, distant lights on the river are a moon's glow, and one or two are stars, that poke the dusk through the hush of falling snow, to the Summer warmth of a shelter, where onyx tinctured mares have wings, to fly through at night. Their snow-white wings are soft as flour, and their hooves are as magical as the Ruby Shoes in the dream.They tear through, weave tatters into fear. They tat a net, with the silky gleam of tinsel, to catch the diamonds that prick the sky, cut into an artist's canvas, who paints this nightmare.. the very edge of 'morn spills cream hues, lifts up a gold rose. The river sparkles.