Wild Horses It's November and the air is silky mist with frozen dew crunching beneath tatty old shoes. There's a bonfire, spitting smoke and old lovers, just out of reach of my camera lens, but we've wandered across the field to where the wild horses graze.The river is murky and my companion crouches, black jacket trailing in the gentle ebb-and-flow passing ducks create.'Look. I can see my reflection.'I look away. The bonfire is flickering in the distance and fireworks are screeching curse words in the sky. Red, yellow, green spirals, and then the wild horse is cantering closer, whinnying, its mane proud, and there's suddenly fire in my irises.'W