Not for the Squeamish The horses were his friends and understood him as much as he understood them or so he believed. People called him a whisperer and thought the horses read his mind. He didn't know but after a day spent slaughtering his four legged friends, he felt reluctant to say he's knackered.
It's strange how the mind works and the associations made in a creative burst. I was doing my weekly shopping in an organic market in The Liberties on a square called Newmarket where a new distillery was being constructed. The previous evening I had sampled a new drink called 'Flaming Pig' which celebrated the Dublin…Read more ORGANIC, story of a fire