5 FEBRUARY 1994, Page 33

To Pierre in the South The wind tonight's uncommon wild.

I lack the sun. I miss you so. My dearest one, I need a child.

For all these weeks I have not smiled. Time drags his boots of stone — so slow. The wind tonight's uncommon wild.

You're wrong to think that I am mild. You cannot love me, else why go? My dearest one, I need a child.

Your silence makes me feel reviled.

You know that scene with trees and snow? The wind tonight's uncommon wild.

Alas your painting is defiled. I crumpled it. A feeble throw.

My dearest one, I need a child.

It landed where the ash is piled. I smoothed it out; you'll scarcely know. The wind tonight's uncommon wild. My dearest one, I need a child.

Felicity Napier