Heat, silence.
The thorny branches of the acacias
Stand motionless in the slight, warm breeze.
Grace, loping over the sun-dried grass
In brown-patched hide and long-lashed eyes,
Reaching up to heaven.
The acacia’s defences no match for that lithe tounge,
A branch is stripped of green
In a breath.
One sound, the beauty turns, flees,
The hollow sound of galloping on baked earth
The lithe silhouette flowing over the grass,
Time streaming behind like a veil.
