Welsh Journals

While, like a fiery spring, The red blood bubbled from his lung. I cannot see whose insignia he wore. Only his black hair flutters in the morning breeze, A gentle sun, no bullets now, divides the trees. I know that I should talk and talk, But I am grown sick of the testimony Of polite and politic men. I leave the elegy and whitewash to them. John Ackerman CANZONETTA Your hair shines brightly, 0 step lightly, love, run with corn to giddy hens, run and leap the grassy bank, start the fieldmice from their dens; blow the clouds and sing the sun, make the mountain move. Come and shout beneath the window, call me out to walk, and I shall press a summer dress, and come with you. To the shop that smells of coffee, to the church below the hill, to the wall where lizards whistle, to the trees where swallows trill, to the grotto where the water falls like lilies to the lands, to Costa in the summer where the sun is in your hands. Valerie Minogue