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the wind gallops from the hills

so that the trees in its path bow at the waist;

it is eternal supplication



the river runs cold in a gut and hugs a hill

from which the bush comes down to drink,

and it dips into water so clean it runs like oil



there is a stout house of a low terrace, its windows

pressed to the view, and tussocks roll in the wind,

and people listen and watch and think:

this is fine place, with wind and water and

views to damn the eyes

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