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WIND FROM AN EMPTIER PADDOCK
Your grey horns are curling into my hands like shells,
from a forehead of bone, for my cheek to rest upon.
I drag you by the hind legs beneath the morning sun.
You make a closed farm gate bright with inquiry.
You give life to the barren dry season ground,
with hooves that march briskly ever onwards,
as if new beginnings, in neighbouring paddocks,
are waiting to be found. Your innocence astounds.
Head upon shoulder, you travel to support each other,
as you go to places, seldom seen by exploring men
and when at night, the soft dew settles on your noses,
you spread across olive scrub, lilies on a billabong.
Wind from an emptier paddock turns seeds as it blows.
Trees have dropped their warm mangoes months ago
and I know, my lovely, is with the good shepherd now.
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