He looks down
From the loft,
A controlled neigh,
as he shrugs off
the dust of memories....
The little feet
clutching his sides
Hands around his face,
Face against his mane,
Holding tight,
And the mother calls
the little fellow
who pretends not to hear,
Rocks a bit harder,
bends and whispers,
Faster, Faster,
I cant go for a bath,
Or for lunch,
or to school....
They wont let me take you with me..
Today,
he watches ,
from the loft,
with a resigned neigh,
As the boy ,
enamoured with
an unreal mouse,
Clicks and writes about him....
“Riding a horse is not a gentle hobby, to be picked up and laid down like a game of Solitaire. It is a grand passion.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Lecturer and Essayist, (1803-1882)
Time changes things, people move on. Perhaps he will find another little boy who values him....
ReplyDeleteReading this I suddenly saw in my mind a picture of my oldest daughter at five, riding off into a world all her own on the back of her rocking horse. Lovely memory! Thanks for that!
ReplyDeleteHave a great weekend, Ugich!
Sylvia
Wonderful! the imagery is lovely.
ReplyDelete