In Conversation

In Conversation

We’ve been here a while and from where I’m sitting, high on the hill, I can see them standing, facing each other. She’s relaxed but determined; hands are behind her back, shoulders down, legs set apart – balanced. She is rooted. A part of the land she stands upon. Her head is tipped slightly to one side as she regards him steadily.


For his part, he has more attitude. He faces her full on, his shoulders are set – square. He challenges the earth and although he is still, movement ripples through him.

Appearances are everything aren’t they? If you look the part the other believes it. Don’t they? His certainty sometimes wavers – a visible quiver.

As I watch, the grass scratches at my legs, and the sun warms my neck. A beautiful day for conversation. They are down the hill from me. I can’t see their eyes but I know hers are soft, cajoling and, no doubt, a little smile plays on her lips. His eyes are mutable; changing from hard and almost challenging, to hesitant – apologetic.

As I watch, the exchange continues. Lessons for both. He dips his head to the ground, considering his next move. Then, inspired, he turns away, showing her his left side and the livid scar that sill stands against the black.

In return, she whispers softly, and without hesitation, walks slowly around to face him once again. She returns to her previous stance.

The sun shines on the back of her head now and it dances on her dark hair, almost the same black as his own. It’s tied back in childlike bunches, but the extravagant tattoos on her neck belie aged confidence that challenges his youth. A litany of experience is in this woman. Her scars match his own.

There is no rush. He watches her from one eye, effecting nonchalance, long black lashes blinking over brown. He dips once again, turns and steadies. She circles too. Now both back to their former positions. A study in motion. A dance.

I remain at my distance as time passes noting the sun’s descent until the rising mosquitoes start to bite. Then I stand to leave. They both startle at my movement, having forgotten my presence long ago, and make involuntary steps towards each other.

Her confusion fades and he watches as she raises a hand to acknowledge my parting. Still unsure, he takes another step forward, a fearful movement? No - possessive. She looks back at him, focussed again and whispers.

He steps forward once more and leans his head down to her – eye to eye. And now finally they connect, forehead to forehead. She smiles and raises a hand to stroke his neck.

As I return to my car I can hear the sound of hooves in canter and know a bargain has been struck. A horse and a woman – in conversation. A celebration.