THE YELLOW ROSE OF SPRING Nor red nor crimson is my rose, No green-grassed lawn no pride of place Nor graceful in the scented air Nor thorns to draw your kiss of blood, Emblem of desire nor symbol of eternal love. Mine is when the furies bare the mountain's breast And naked limbs reveal a moonbeam Sheathed in shining ice that stabs And cleaves the belly of the earth from root to navel, And melting in the Mother's womb, brings forth the yellow rose of spring. Charles Jones THESE THINGS Mint freshly chopped on tables white, Fresh watercress for tea, Striped cats asleep beneath the sun, I take these things for my delight. Lilac and sweet pea, Soapsud bracelets on my arm, Omar's thought provoking verses. Gentle Sympathy of nurses. The frilly futile flaps of ears, Of spaniels-coats so wondrous wavy, Beethoven's Seventh, bright icicles, Bubbles in soup or gravy. These things I take for my delight, The impudence of a daffodil, Porridge on a winter's night, A dimpled cloud, a sturdy hill. Eryl Griffiths