Run the quenda
on a tintoy track
through the fatly mounded clover cover
from stage left to right
while the house is watching
the garden wall holding to the course
the greens all rising on the bank
the bolt the beat
the holt and the retreat
the quenda run in minute footprints tracking
trails visible even while
the wild stalks spring back to attention
in his wake
Great poem. Running the quenda. The rhythm. The beat. The beautiful beat. (Neurotics in the suburbs have nothing on the bandicoot.)
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