Picture two horses, they are harnessed to a beautiful carriage, a well dressed coachman sits atop the drivers seat, whip and reigns in hand. The wheels are glistening, gilded and smooth. If you could peep through the curtains that enclose its passenger, you’d see a poor man, riding in luxury, perhaps reading a book.
With a light tap of his cane upon the ceiling, the passenger bids the coachman to move along now.
The coachman sets the whip into its scabbard, and takes a reign in each hand, and with a gentle cricket sound he flips the reigns lightly on the white Clydesdales’ backs. The horses nod and nay in response with ever a so slight turn of the heads as if to look upon their master, but their blinders prevent it. Their gaze is straight ahead, down the road to their next stop on this ride of their lives.
The coachman is Andrew, its rider, a younger man than he, his younger brother.
Running Down Vimy 