Uffington
2002 03 23
|
etc
no date
2024 +
2025
entries
home
This animal they call a horse, its body etched in chalk into the hillside. It watches the landscape, watches over the dragon mound, watches over the forge that was Excalibur's birthplace. He appears skeletal, the lines thin, his body thin, but his stance is active. He is rearing, running maybe, ready to pounce, to leap, to strike. Maybe he's not a horse at all. Maybe he is the dragon. For thousands of years he's stood there, ground and grooved into the hillside. Perhaps it isn't chalk at all, but the blood of George's success bleached white by time and sunlight.