3 SEPTEMBER 1948, Page 11

PICTURE FROM A NIGHTMARE

A host of the icy dead are among us. They come, marching in legions Over the white sea.

They break upon us with a roar With a white iciness With the chill of the North wind And the anguish of contorted, sheer-bound ice.

I fear them, for with them comes no warmth, No succour, no release.

Only the malice of warped, wind-scarped needles Unscaleable, irreconcilable, pointing accusation To the stars.

DAVID HARDMAN.