By Rhoda Neville
In times of my uncertainty,
the fragrance of my grandmama
wends its way to me –
the elusive scent of Quadrille
fashions the fogged spectre of a
lofty manège in Córdoba,
dim and cool after midday sun
where the grey ghosts of horses
dance through daily cadenced drills.
Perfectly timed, perfectly formed,
the Zen of practice and grace.
In this vision all is calm,
is ordered, as expected.
Then, the scent fades away and,
buttressed, I move on to follow
one path or another.