The Horse by Kay Yendole

As long as I can remember I have always loved horses. Every year I would ask my father if I could have one. The answer was always the same, with a hundred reasons why it would not be practical. I must be content with going to the local stables to help out and save all my pocket money for riding lessons.

But my passion ran deep, content I was not.  Opposite the greenhouse was a corner of the garden not planted, so I claimed it as my special place, and began to build a horse. Yes that’s right, build a horse, not a house. I began with a large metal trunk as the base, then a rolled up mattress as the body. I got a second hand saddle complete with stirrups and a set of reins from the stables.  Polythene and an old army blanket covered most of the contraption and I fashioned a head with papier-mâché  and many coats of varnish to keep it waterproof. To many it may have seemed a pile of rubbish but to me it was my horse, my friend, and I treated it as such, going every day to attend to it and polish the saddle and ride it.  Maybe I was trying to prove to my father that if  I did have a horse I would be committed to looking after it. He was amused, I think, but did not change his mind about getting me one. This was not a passing phase, the horse remained in tact for eight years, and I looked after it until I left home.

 

No need for toys


That plastic rubbish


Taking up space, messing my room.


I want more time


To play outdoors


There is my horse, I am the groom.


I play for hours


Galloping across the downs and jumps

His mane a rope


But the saddle is real


His body built from trunks of steel.


I talk to him my stallion friend


This fantasy will never end.


I urge him on


From trot to canter.


I stroke his neck,


His breath I feel.


Together we ride


Over hedges and fields


This substitution for reality.


So don’t buy me toys


Father can’t you see


My imagination is good enough for me.