|Horse at the gate|
It was late, and still warm - so strange! I walked without a coat or a hat or a scarf. And the quarter moon lit the sky. A black shadows of dogs raced down the road. And a faint orange glow in the distance showed Dublin, over the mountain.
A horse in his coat still stood by the gate, pulling at hay. Somewhere in the distance the squeal of a small animal. Shadows and light and life. And as I turn back in the drive, Andrew's sitting in the porch in his pyjamas, waiting for me to come back before he'll go to bed. Shadows, and light, and life.