The snow is beginning to fall…

It has been seven years since Dermot Morgan died. Can you believe it?

My lovely horse, running through the field
Where are you going, with your fetlocks blowing in the wind?

I want to shower you with sugar lumps, and ride you over fences
Polish your hooves every single day, and bring you to the horse dentist

My lovely horse, you’re a pony no more
Running around with a man on your back, like a train in the night…