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Hilltop: A Literary Paper. Volume 1 Number 1



Evening through the gorge,
And my lover steps through the ladened
Orchard trees
As easily as a breeze.

Through the green rain
Of her frock, her white flesh shows
Like flowers
Discerned through running glass.

Her legs are long and lonely . .
The peaches fall in the wind spilling
Gold-white flesh,
Like the crushed hands of girls.

Her flower-pale hair falling
Across her shoulders, attracts the wind
That casts
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:
She herself
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.