2 FEBRUARY 1934, Page 14

Two Poems

The Feather

A mAN and woman walking Up the rye hill

Had no breath for talking ; The evening was still.

Only the wind in the rough grass Made a papery patter ; I won't say who she was, And his name doesn't matter.

Down fell a curlew's feather As they went on their way (Who walked kindly together And had nothing to say) ; So light, so soft, so strange, To have settled on her heart ; It was the breath of change, That breathed them apart.