Hilltop: A Literary Paper. Volume 1 Number 1
Evening through the gorge,
And my lover steps through the ladened
As easily as a breeze.
Through the green rain
Of her frock, her white flesh shows
Discerned through running glass.
Her legs are long and lonely . .
The peaches fall in the wind spilling
Like the crushed hands of girls.
Her flower-pale hair falling
Across her shoulders, attracts the wind
A shadow of honey on her brow.
Her sex is a swarm of bees
In the bruised rose of her belly. There
In a golden hive
The wild Love keeps his ease.
A breeze descends from the hill,
And wakes in her throat the palaver of birds:
Is a song uttered by evening
In the jewelled ear of night.
I wait for her, here as always . .
She has seen me:
And O, she runs, she runs.