The Hippogriff's Meadow

Beneath the sky, so wide and clear,
Where hills of green rise soft and high,
A creature roams, both bold and dear,
With wings that cut the open sky.

Its hooves, like polished silver bright,
Touch down upon the morning dew,
And in its eyes, the ancient light
Of worlds unknown comes into view.

The meadows hum with gentle grace,
The wind a whisper in the trees,
And there the hippogriff does trace
Its path across the summer breeze.

Its eagle head, with feathers fine,
Crests high above the pasture’s glow,
While horse-like strength, in sleek design,
Propels it o’er the streams below.

Among the flowers, blue and white,
It pauses, grazing in the sun,
A mythic beast of noble might,
Yet peaceful as the day is done.

The shepherds watch from far-off knolls,
Amazed by what their eyes behold—
A creature from the oldest scrolls,
Alive within the fields of gold.

It bends to drink from crystal streams,
Where lilies bloom, and willows lean,
A sight that fills the mind with dreams
Of things both wondrous and serene.

The forest waits, the glens are still,
As hoof and talon tread the glade,
And with a leap of perfect will,
It soars where only hawks have played.

Above the valleys, green and wide,
Its shadow dances on the plain,
As clouds around it softly glide,
And nature sings its sweet refrain.

O hippogriff, in twilight’s glow,
You carry myths on wings of grace,
Through lands where only legends go,
And time cannot your flight erase.