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Don’t scare the horses

We should have known. We should have recognised the omens. There had been so many. Floods, storms, drought, famine, plague. Death and destruction. Not by the gods but by the hands of men. Men hungry for power, raising armies, setting fire to the fields and the forests, making gardens into graveyards, turning homes to dust.

Until, at last, they came.

The horses, messengers of the gods. Speaking not with words, but with the drumming of their hooves. Pounding, thudding, untiring, unceasing. On and on, across the city, from west to east, racing against time, racing against the setting sun.

Hark to the beat of the galloping hooves! See the blood that stains the breast of the pure white riderless horse! When the horses stop will the sun still rise? Will their silent voices ever be heard?

Previous Posts

A fox in the garden

The first time I saw a fox in the garden of our new house, I was thrilled. I looked out for it every evening and was equally thrilled each time I caught a glimpse of its eyes, nose and, best of all, its brush. But the thrill began to fade as the fox holes began to...

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The ghost of novelists past

Mrs Mander (my wife, Jaspreet Mander, keeping her own name instead of taking mine, adhering to Indian traditions instead of British) went with me last night to The Leeds Library to a reading of ‘A Christmas Carol’ by Gerald Dickens, great-great grandson of the author....

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