27 NOVEMBER 1942, Page 11

RAIDER

AT the moon's noon,

High in the icelight lost, It threads . . .

Grumbles remotely To a prowling mate.

Now hear it pass From unknown to unknown, At last A nasal humdrum • On the moon's blind face.

A flower of shells (Cylindrical, the sound) Searches the silver space.

P. A. T. O'DONNELL.