Little grey horse

You have real intelligence in your eyes.

I can see the anger and confusion and the calculation: What will it take to intimidate me?  You already have, little boy. I am aware of your frustration, your power.  You are only aware that in the recent past, bad things happened to you with people like me. People with power  over you, your life, your death. You know what I could do to you, and the fact that I wont does not reassure you. You have no reason to like me or my kind.

I know of your pain, your abuse. You lack even the most basic of social graces. Deprived of food and water, you are angry and aggressive at meal times. Deprived of time to play, you are rude and sullen. A Spanish Prince bred for war, you demand respect but cannot tolerate  my affection because you do not understand it. The only time you are pleased to see me is when I come to escort you to one of your consorts.  Now as we stand in the sand, we must reach an understanding. You are aware of your power, growing as quickly as you, now that you eat your fill each day.
I hold the long canvas rein that binds you to my will and we engage in silent warfare. I wish you could understand this is for your good. That you must be calm, tractable, for already there are those who fear you in your new home. Your future wellbeing depends on this, that you demonstrate your cooperation. But perhaps not today, perhaps not for many weeks until the scars have healed. The fear of hunger and misuse have faded a little more.

Tossing your mass of grey and silver mane  you prance and dance around me, daring me to object. I am quiet,waiting for the moment you realise I am not going to fight with you. How long?  As long as it takes.
"I am a King!" You declare, black hooves carving the sand.
"I know you are." I reply, avoiding your charge. "But I am your tutor. Even a King must learn to rule."
"Perhaps."  You concede.  At least enough to claim the reward from my coat pocket.
"Perhaps." I agree . You tolerate my hand on your nose for a moment and we stare eye to eye. Wondering.
Little Andalusian stallion.

                                                                                  *********************
You are thousands of miles from this cold and windy place.
It was too hard for you, too far to travel.  The world had made you and I could not unmake you. 
Two long years we tried, until at last it was enough. Our constant sparring brought no reward, You would not, could not, yield. I could not justify the long and pointless conflict. You hated the weather, the wet, the work. Sometimes I saw a glimpse of the longing in your soul for another life. We rescued you from misery, but it was not enough. You fought every kindness and every offer of friendship as fiercely as you defended the food you were never denied.
At last  I could not deny the logic of letting you go.
You are thousands of miles from this place, this cold and windy island.
I hear that you dance along the burning sands and gallop over dunes. I could not give you such splendour, such opulence, but I let you go so that someone could. No consorts now for you. The price you paid for luxury and freedom. A Royal Spaniard for the leisure of an Arabian Princess. I hope she loves you as I did. I wonder; do you love her?
Little Andalusian Gelding.