THE RIDER

He’ll ride in the morning, through the day travels the road,

High up on the hills, a shadow beneath the clouds, he rides.

Into the wind, the rain blowing against his face, he rides,

The snow falls as through the mountain passes he is moving.

A man with no name, throughout the land maybe a glimpse,

He’s known only as the rider carrying whatever for hire.

This horse he rides with colors of solid black and white spots,

A demon creature, wicked with speed like the wind.

Brown and black hat worn on his head gives a mysterious appearance,

A coat so long for cover and warmth shields him from weather, the rider.

Boots on his feet of dark, broken in pattern can be noticed in the stirrups,

This man of the land rides and rides just he and his faithful companion.

Like a ghost so quiet he roams the wild wilderness of life,

He’s known as the rider, into the night he rides.

Keith Garrett