Horse

Ever since I was a small boy I’ve been fascinated by the mysterious quality of fog and mist. The hill that overlooked my house and my school, Turner’s Hill, the beneficent grassy mound rising above Rowley Regis and Dudley, is much higher than the ground which surrounds it, and so each time mist came, its top would disappear in an auspicious cloud.  In fact, the higher part of the hill was named “Cloud Land” on old maps, which shows how regular these events are.

On the hill were two trees, until around six years ago: old and gnarled, from the distance of my nan’s back garden some mile and a half away they looked like a giant grey-black horse bending her head to eat. When I would walk up there with my mom, nan or uncle, we would say hello to the real horses that graze on the grass. So I’ve always associated the hill with horses, and when I saw a particularly lovely thick mist descend, I grabbed the camera and went. 

I was moved by the aura of gentle power that emanated from the horses, somehow intensified by the dimness of the air, the failing light, and the stillness of the trees that day. 

David