Monkeys in the mist

It is a dreary day here in Hampshire, hanging mist that will not let a sliver of sunshine through, with a still chill that hangs about one like a heavy cloak.

Max had his usual fuss and his bowl offered up a small chopped carrot, pear and a handful of ponynuts as a treat before he went to his field. One of the other liveries remarked that Max always makes his modest offering sound like a glorious feast!

I've detached the hood from his rug now, as the temperature is hovering a few degrees above freezing, and we now know that the culprit is Max's young field mate. The YO has spotted Max and his pal in the evening, two youngsters together, cavorting like colts and pulling each other about by their neck hoods.

As I left the yard today I looked across the lane and through the mist, I saw the murky outline of the three monkeys; the older, wiser Boss, smallest of the three, had turned his back with an air of weary tolerance while Max and his young friend leapt and pranced about together, obviously having a ball.

Horseplay may be discouraged amongst young human children ("Stop it right now before someone gets hurt!") but to watch these horses at play, silhouettes in the mist, was like glimpsing into the land of Faerie, where earthly cares and woes hold no dominion, but must bow to grace, glee and magic.