24 DECEMBER 1948, Page 14

ON HOWTH CLIFFS

Moving alone in a shy zone of sun, Scaling the discontinuous terraces, I hear a surf that shakes above the sea— The choking of the clustered heather-husks, Arid amongst the marble. When I pause, Suddenly softness falls.

Here, from the depths of an abysmal bay, A leaguelong tongue of wall defines a street Swept to the smoothness of a dancing floor, A street of water, where the microcraft Steam in the vastness against frozen time. Yet not a murmur mounts.

Outward, the sky is weighted to the sea Beneath whose milky rim lie living lands Sealed in their silences more secret stilL P. A. T. O'DONNELL.