♥ here are all my friends that live in the stables (in order of when they came to live in the stables) clip clop here they come look out ♥
floppy horn nune was the very first of the nonnies. very old and wise. and grey. the horn has become a bit floppy but we all become a bit floppy as we get older. it is these changes that make us beautiful. floppy horn nune and bow nune are in charge of making the rain
bow nune has many bows. bow nune is also quite old and grey. bow nune doesn't give a fuck what you think about their bows, bow nune dresses like this just for bow nune. bow nune and floppy horn nune are in charge of making the rain
blue nune is a galaxy. blue nune has gangle peets. blue nune is very very clever but also very slow to learn. blue nune is also a blue kitchen pot but is hoping to expand to being in control of the tides
fresh clean nune is a princess. please wash your hands before giving fresh clean nune a pat. best friend is fresh clean folded nune. fresh clean nune does not work
fresh clean folded nune is a princess. please wash your hands before giving fresh clean folded nune a pat. best friend is fresh clean nune. fresh clean folded nune does not work
rainbow popcorn nune doesn't say much but is very special and full of love. rainbow popcorn nune is still looking for a calling to devote their time to
tiny purple nune is both the newest and smallest nonny in the stables. tiny purple nune is quite cheeky and is still deciding what they want to be when they grow up
THE LITTLE WHITE HORSE
It was under the white moon that I saw him,
The little white horse, with neck arched high in pride.
Lovely his pride, delicate, no taint of self
Staining the unconscious innocence denied
Knowledge of good and evil, burden of days
Of shame crouched beneath the flail of memory.
No past for you, little white horse, no regret,
No future of fear in this silver forest —
Only the perfect now in the white moon-dappled ride.
A flower-like body fashioned all of light,
For the speed of light, yet momently at rest,
Balanced on the sheer knife-edge of perfection;
Perfection of grass silver upon the crest
Of the hill, before the scythe falls, snow in sun,
Of the shaken human spirit when God speaks
In His still small voice and for a breath of time
All is hushed; gone in a sigh, that perfection,
Leaving the sharp knife-edge turning slowly in the breast.
The raised hoof, the proud poised head, the flowing mane,
The supreme moment of stillness before the flight,
The moment of farewell, of wordless pleading
For remembrance of things lost to earthly sight —
Then the half-turn under the trees, a motion
Fluid as the movement of light on water . . .
Stay, oh stay in the forest, little white horse! . . .
He is lost and gone and now I do not know
If it was a little white horse that I saw,
Or only a moonbeam astray in the silver night.
-Elizabeth Goudge