I am fascinated by the horse hoof shoes, they even have no heels.
Such small black belts, supports for horse hair tails.
My eyes open wide, this is from the 70's, a horse show in the country.
Yes, the 70's had a dream-like surreal quality to it, running parallel to the strikes.
How do the men feel as they put on the policemen's uniform?
Standing together with the others, acting together.
Respecting the real-life police horse trainer shouting clear orders.
Now to my department, but for poetry this time.
I meet Brian Nesbit and hold the hand he offers me, turn my ear to hear him better.
His close friend reads out his poems to a crowded room.
Babies and children are taken in and out.
A little boy pushes his shoe against my knee, the sweetest familiar feeling.
I try to explain how one day the parents might adore every fraction of other peoples' younger children, it's an impossible task.
One line is what I needed to hear, about being in the presence, which poem was it?
I wonder how I can rearrange my life, be with more people, more regularly.
I hold Brian's hand again, we say goodbye, I chat with his wife's relatives on the terrace.
We share one poem each, mine gets the shocked murmur.
I realise I need to switch the stanzas around a few days later.
I ask a friend out to coffee, she asks me to go to Catweazle instead.
We finally sit on the carpet at the front for the second half.
Energetic guitar players and a mesmerising balloon stage artist.
We are rapt when he stands in silence, dealing with mishaps with a simple stage presence.
My feet get sore, there is a lot of pavement for a small city.