1 JANUARY 1965, Page 21

Convalescent

Tissue round a void, I pace

Sunshiny pavements, watching shadows sprout From each foot, marvelling bow a vacant head Can plop a blob of darkness on a stone.

But there itis—familiar, small skull-shape; High shoulders, too, somehow sustained and tensed; A torso, thighs. Something, then, persists

To utilise the sun. I raise my head

And blink in scathing light. Abrasive scents

Waken my nostrils. So this is the new start—

A shape, and two clean senses. The rest was junk, • Justly thrown out. I'll call it birth.

I'll walk slowly, keep the sun behind me. I'll watch this sidling patch. I'll buy a drink And taste and taste. Perhaps a bird will sing And, sitting outside, I'll hear. Then I'll resume Slow walking, and have faith in shadows.

BRIAN JONES