ALICE AND THE HORSES.

A LITTLE GIRL AND THE HORSES AND MAID.

Alice walks with

the thin maid

to the stables, holding

the thin hand with

red knuckles, the

mild limp crossing

the narrow path like

a wounded ship. Do

you like the horses,

then? the maid asks,

bringing the eyes

upon the child,

holding tight the

pale pink hand.

Alice nods, yes,

I like the black one,

like its dark eyes

and coat. The maid

eyes the pinafore,

the hair tidy and neat,

the shiny shoes, the

tiny hand in hers.

Have you ridden

any yet? the maid

asks. No, not allowed

as yet, Alice says,

feeling the red thumb

rub the back of her

hand. Shame, the maid

says, perhaps soon.

Alice doesn't think so,

neither her father nor

the new nanny will

permit that; her mother

says she may, but that

amounts to little, in

the motions of things.

She can smell the

horses, hay and dung.

The red hand lets her

loose. The stable master

stares at her, his thick

brows bordering his

dark brown eyes,

conker like in their

hardness and colour.

Have you come to

look at the horses?

he says, holding a

horse near to her.

She nods, stares

at the horse, brown,

tall, sweating,

loudly snorting.

The maid stares

at the horse, stands

next to the child,

hand on the arm.

You're not to ride

them yet, he says,

but you can view,

I'm told. Alice runs

her small palm down

the horse's leg and

belly, warm, smooth,

the horse indifferent,

snorting, moving the

groom master aside.

The maid holds the

child close to her.

Be all right, he won't

harm, he says, smiling.

He leads the horse away,

the horse swaying to

a secret music, clip-

clop-clip-clop. Alice

watches the departing

horse. Come on, the

maid says, let's see

the others and lifts

the child up to view

the other horse in the

stable over the half

open door, then along

to see others in other

half doors, Alice smiles

at the sight and smells

and sounds. She senses

the red hands holding

her up, strong yet thin,

the fingers around her

waist. Having seen them

all, the maid puts her

down gently. Ain't that

good? the maid says.

Alice smiles, yes, love

them, she says. She

feels the thin hand, hold

her pale pink one again,

as they make their way

back to the house, the

slow trot of the limping

gait, the maid's thumb

rubbing her hand, smiling

through eyes and lips,

the morning sun blessing

their heads through the

trees and branches above.

If only, Alice thinks, looking

sidelong on at the thin

maid's smile, her father

did this, and showed such love.

Alice walks with

the thin maid

to the stables, holding

the thin hand with

red knuckles, the

mild limp crossing

the narrow path like

a wounded ship. Do

you like the horses,

then? the maid asks,

bringing the eyes

upon the child,

holding tight the

pale pink hand.

Alice nods, yes,

I like the black one,

like its dark eyes

and coat. The maid

eyes the pinafore,

the hair tidy and neat,

the shiny shoes, the

tiny hand in hers.

Have you ridden

any yet? the maid

asks. No, not allowed

as yet, Alice says,

feeling the red thumb

rub the back of her

hand. Shame, the maid

says, perhaps soon.

Alice doesn't think so,

neither her father nor

the new nanny will

permit that; her mother

says she may, but that

amounts to little, in

the motions of things.

She can smell the

horses, hay and dung.

The red hand lets her

loose. The stable master

stares at her, his thick

brows bordering his

dark brown eyes,

conker like in their

hardness and colour.

Have you come to

look at the horses?

he says, holding a

horse near to her.

She nods, stares

at the horse, brown,

tall, sweating,

loudly snorting.

The maid stares

at the horse, stands

next to the child,

hand on the arm.

You're not to ride

them yet, he says,

but you can view,

I'm told. Alice runs

her small palm down

the horse's leg and

belly, warm, smooth,

the horse indifferent,

snorting, moving the

groom master aside.

The maid holds the

child close to her.

Be all right, he won't

harm, he says, smiling.

He leads the horse away,

the horse swaying to

a secret music, clip-

clop-clip-clop. Alice

watches the departing

horse. Come on, the

maid says, let's see

the others and lifts

the child up to view

the other horse in the

stable over the half

open door, then along

to see others in other

half doors, Alice smiles

at the sight and smells

and sounds. She senses

the red hands holding

her up, strong yet thin,

the fingers around her

waist. Having seen them

all, the maid puts her

down gently. Ain't that

good? the maid says.

Alice smiles, yes, love

them, she says. She

feels the thin hand, hold

her pale pink one again,

as they make their way

back to the house, the

slow trot of the limping

gait, the maid's thumb

rubbing her hand, smiling

through eyes and lips,

the morning sun blessing

their heads through the

trees and branches above.

If only, Alice thinks, looking

sidelong on at the thin

maid's smile, her father

did this, and showed such love.