23 NOVEMBER 1962, Page 51

Hand on Heart

There is no blood to point the wound. Nor where I drag myself along A spoor such as dying animals show.

I would be happier if there were; Instead 1 carry in my head

The stain that marks and slows me so.

But laying your hand against my heart Can murmur 'there' and gently press Your fingers, repeating softly 'yes.'

ALAN ROSS