The Nicolson Institute: Alexander Wade




Here she comes up the hill,
hoofs pounding, a lone figure.
Tall and strong, she rushes like a wave,
an air of barbarity hangs around her.

Now she's closer,
I see that this is a facade.
Soft and feathery to the touch,
Her smell adds to the aura of homeliness.

I feed her the carrots,
you must keep your palm flat.
Her whiskers brush my palm,
As she sweeps up her favorite carrots.

by Alexander Wade