20 MAY 1943, Page 11

SONNET

O WOMB of -the World, what more can you hold than this

Small mansion of the dead wherein each sleeps Forgotten and uncounted, the cold kiss Of time and death upon them? Grey rock keeps What little memory there is the dolmen And megalith, tall towers placed in the sky, Retain the only record of the human Dynasties that have passed. The black winds sigh From corner to corner of the warring earth, Their only whistle to whisper of our birth To the green grass-shoot that creeps over the tomb Of one more human head. There is no womb From which we can erect a sure memorial: The lineaments of death will cover all.

NICHOLAS MOORE