We saw the wake, but nothing of the boat, because it was happiness that had passed by. They gazed at each other, deep in their eyes a perception at last of the promised clearing, where great stags were running in all their freedom. No hunter entered that country without tears. It was the next day, after a night of cold, we recognised them as those who are drowned for love. But what we might have taken for their grief signalled to us it was not to be trusted. A shred of their sail still floated in the air alone, free to take the wind at its pleasure, far away from the drifting boat and its oars.
THE OPEN REPRESENTATION OF SEXUALITY AND FEMALE FORCE – Dorothy Hewett, an aspiring writer during World War II
When poetic vocation grows between sheep and wheat, southeast of Perth Bobbin Up, her first …