Welsh Journals

PARK The tiny cream-bricked lighthouse on the hill Glitters seeing all and this. The island grass Is silent and pale green, the high dry tide Deep blue-wood water, smooth and shadowless, Smooth to the white upright collar of the cliff. One tealeaf swimmer swims that dusty sea. Radiant and woollen gold, the suns sees too The tilted gold-browed moon bent on the little park Whose paths are heaped with snow, or burnt-wood black. Over the velvet railings of the pond A white-edged hunchback feeds a swan with cake. The fancy bridge has bamboo legs, combs back The river's long blue hair; and on its hump a boy Bald-headed, wearing lemon boots, leans back Flying the fish-kite, while his Jessie sits On gaudy grass to touch the raisin tree. Pass, doves, and you the coal-flanked elephant Jessie's tall corn-coloured tree, and pass Her flocks of daffodils and copper weathercocks, Make with your crimson satan-satin sash Towards the glittering lighthouse, where its glass Flashes like crossed scissors in the sun. GLYN JONES. BROADENS THE MIND, IF Talking to you tri-lingually quadruple things are built. I see my pre-you Pyramids de-sphinxiate in silt. I feel a buried city rise within me, nor do know how real the resurrection or if putrefaction show. And while I let this question out, straightway another stands; the old gibe, gulfed in drifts of doubt, "which are my soul's quicksands ?