There is a pub in a neighboring village with a view of a green hillside in the middle distance. Every once and a while a white horse drifts onto this hillside from the thickets of trees that serve as the wings for his stage.
Sitting on the back porch of this pub last night the air was cool, wispy clouds were back lit pink against a pale blue sky, and sure enough the horse appeared. Had he sprouted an ivory spiral and disappeared into the sky on an invisible rainbow, I would have only been half-surprised.