by Jacqui White
What I am after, oh what I am After Is the flight, the flight of the Michaelmas hills with their wings of shadows and lights and the long, slow slow gliding of hawks and of eagles and the long long wing, the blue melting wing of the hill, and the consecration of dawn The magenta of dawn. And the blesbuck’s small horns as she slightly so slightly, flowering face, dips a delicate dip of the delicate neck I heard the grass she plucked. I heard the bending stems of the long grass slide as she plucked with the sensitive, quick dip of the neck and the hawk swung on the wing in the air close to my hair. Oh what I am after the Michaelmas hills the Michaelmas hills and the cupped blue stars with their daisy silence long ages long, that slight petalled stillness, strong and the Michaelmas-white flowers, flaring at my feet The Michael flowers radiant.
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