Welsh Journals

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DISPLAY Viewing the vivid baize the bowl the billiard top we saw the slow march devil dancers come the tommy-trot the sting hearing the firewood handclap. We were too cold like saints we could not grasp or gum those bits together. Can we reply to artillery the staccato anarchist of the drum. Seeing the mobile units three-seven and crew of blood its livid fingers fondle the sky's flesh the quest the killing mockery they drew their tinhat memories the major red weapons joys forbidding jokes. But we, who chewed no fear were meant only to watch like children a drummer, a giant's toys. PETER HELLINGS. Swansea. SONNET: PIT-BOY WHEN sleep's propped scenery falls about the house And dancing women quickly take off their masks, The brick world wakes up, willing to espouse The child whose parents left the empty flasks. When sleep's propped scenery falls, alarums rouse Children of light to their appointed tasks. Around Laocoon and his children's brows Strangling their violence with venom, a serpent basks. Harnessed to mines, who shall inherit wealth ? To whom, here praying, shall pasteurized milk bring health ? What horror of dawn shall hide our born disgrace ? Torn, with torn satchel, reared in grit and filth, His misery shows a town taken by stealth, And all the accusing heavens in that Welsh face. VERNON WATKINS.