14 APRIL 1967, Page 12

DAVID WADE

Earth

Earth is unruly. Cut her and she runs, she crumbles like brown rough mercury, will not be disciplined.

Proud gardeners runnel her, straight-edge and order her; she, yielding, chains her lords if they will keep her so.

Some pave or tread her down— she bends, black-broods, rejects all life and tactless, feigns the martyr's battered corpse.

Earth must be ruled. Touch her— she dries, she withers you, calls constantly to mind that she will have last word.