3 JANUARY 1964, Page 19

New Year's Day

The urchin wind hangs about the streets, alive in corners at the year's end.

Blown and blowing, my mind sweeps its dust out on the chill errand.

Now is the time for separation; let the doubts die with the calendar. Though late, a unified emotion gives the term to the natural order.

On the edge of the bare stone pavement I look for shelter, for friends, for spring. From these small cautions I shall invent a bird's-eye fable while on the wing, knowing how soon the energy is spent. The cold skull turns to a marble urn. As the year's end, so is its beginning: a colder blast will break this pattern.

DAVID PRY( I--JONES