18 NOVEMBER 1955, Page 35

End of a Hot Day

At last we can look at the melted moon:. The grass is cool like olives : the cicadas Are almost tender. 'Here at least is peace,' We are trusting, 'after the day's hot murders'— When the cat slinks by, a bird in his mouth

Betrayed by the evening's truce.

The child runs for a box, The small remains are buried under the oily light.

She is happy: 'He will sleep in the box all night, And tomorrow push his head through, like the daffodil.' We swallow her bitter pill.

Tomorrow will be hot again; she will forget To wait for the stone to roll away, the green feather to sprout, the twisted beak to twitter.

Every age has its advantages, and every weather. Shall I beat the cat who ate the bird who ate the worm who might have eaten me?

D. J. ENRIGHT