Welsh Journals

Sleeping Men LIGHTS out. The voices die. The fires glow. The embers move as soft as steps in snow. Many asleep already, books put aside, Like soporifics of a waiting bride. For they are waiting, and will live again, Who came as boys and will go back as men. Peace in the faces, free of manly doubt, The godhead showing when least thought about. The statues of the paladins lie broken: The ages sleep. Pain's last word is spoken. KEN ETHERIDGE. Poem TO a flat sky is pinned the tilted moon. The trees have lost their depth- Patterns on the soft divide of day and night. There are no birds to sing no leaves to utter, The resting air is soft and purple still. Another night pauses, And the waiting trees are symbols on the mind's horizon. GEORGE EWART EVANS.