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By John Fuller

The serene child, left to her own devices,

Has chosen to become a helmeted centaur.

As her nose and chin advance through the air,

Her fair hair follows, like a pavane.

Her everywhere is the map in her head

Of a country without boundaries.

There may be some clip-clop on a stretch of road

Or a standing in the river, gently snorting.

But all the hinterland is bramble fields

And a holly path beside the woods

Where the divots stand in the tan earth

Proud as biscuits, as she rides on

To secret woods within the woods

Where the floor is an indetermination of needles,

Where the buzzards whoop above the tree tops

And ghastly fungi bulge like wounds.

It is safe to say that elegant ambulation

May be an end in itself, an adventure.

Where he goes, she goes;

Where she goes, he goes.

The arrangement is completely satisfying,

Like some sort of agreed marriage

In which a singleness of purpose

Finds its mysterious reciprocation.


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