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.'