Villanelle the Foal

Villanelle the Foal A gripping dance (12 men lift a rigid horse onto a pick-up truck). I drive gate-wide in the Volvo (Mummy, what are they doing with that pony? Is it…?) Even I, in my firm sureness am not sure: I have never seen such as this before. (Is pony sick?) Its bay legs strict wooden poles. Its stomach a bloated ball of deceased air (They are gripping…) it, and it's too big for the damn truck. Where’s the horse box, for Goodness’ sake? I fumble with the parking brake, an unsatisfactory switch, not a lever you pull, watching the rear- view mirror show. (One hour later) A joyful dance! Bling-Bling is stood next to a wet, bedazzled, bay foal. We cling to the fence like insects watching her stagger onto legs, (clean for a newborn: she needs to suck). The Vet pulls up a Ford Ranger. In Dr. Zoë serene help came… (We can call the foal “Cash Machine”). The Ford plays ‘The Power of Orange Knickers’... under my petticoat. Let us call her Villanelle and dance to her life and dance to her death. (She is sucking). Within one hour The span of a child’s pony ride in long pine forest we cheat death: we teased it alive.