28 MAY 1954, Page 16

A day's march at the equinox might not suffice to

close our long circuit by dark, this still brick angled coil of the inmost core of the many-membered body's mortared frame, harbour for swallows, and a city's guard.

We at the centre of the peopled land as near in function as eye to eyelid stand within our fabled screen, the humped grey bar that stamps its hold across untrodden hills from sand to sea, remote as another world.

The lines of camels move at their own slow

W. A. B. GARDENER