'A Horse Gallops Across the Horizon' by Sharon Boyle

He rests his hands on top of the broom handle and stares at the horse. It gallops across the wavery lick of horizon, kicking up hot-grit clouds – a different horizon from the clogged skyline of his childhood, where the weather bred chilblains and croupy coughs, and ice doilies on the windows meant coorying in bed beside Wee Billy.
        He remembers how he carved Wee Billy a horse made from kindling and spun sunny promises that one day they’d own a noble steed and ride for hours, and when the Moon appeared with a happy halloo, they’d settle under the stars where the air was clean and sweet. Wee Billy had laughed and said that was a braw idea.

As the hooves drum over the ground, his mind flicks to the way Wee Billy’s laugh changed to a gasping whistle and how he stood above Wee Billy’s grave on a dreich February morn, his grief as black as mould.  
        He wonders about the man his brother would’ve made and the bairns his brother would’ve had and the ripening of his brother’s laugh and how he’s never stopped yearning for clean, sweet air.

He should go inside, to the cabin he’s built. He should hold his wife and babby tight. But here he is, tracking the horse that is running and running, searching for its promised rider.

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At the age of eleven, Sharon won a poetry competition in her local library (all hail libraries) and basked in the glory for three decades before putting pen to paper again. Her short stories and flashes have been published in Bath Anthology, Retreat West, Fictive Dream and Janus Literary. She tweets as @SharonBoyle50 and has a blog at boyleblethers.wordpress.com