The Road CHINESE IVORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 543, 21 December 1928, Page 3 (Supplement)

The Road

CHINESE IVORY

(Continued) minute and turned again to the road. The tinman had an unhappy feeling she had not seen him at all. They came at last to the hill that hid the church. They breasted it and went slowly down the other side. Moyra looked blankly. The road dropped steeply into a wind-swept valley of gorse and fern and low grey scrub; it changed suddenly from clean shell to drab metal; it trod muddily through a rushy swamp; it struggled half-heartedly with a drift of black sand. The tinman heard Moyra’s breath coming quickly and he thought she was laughing. Sh’e asked suddenly, “Where is the church?” “There ain’t no church.” “The aspen trees?” “Nor trees either.” "Where is the little cottage with the pink geraniums ?” The tinman snorted. “Pink geraniums!” "There used to be a church here.” “Nope.” "But there must have been.” "I tell you there never has been. Ain’t I been past twice a year for the last ten years. There ain’t no church and there’s never been one.” Moyra was silent. After a while she put her hand on the tinman’s arm. “Will you stop?” “Stop—me—why ?” “I want to get down. I have to go back.” “But you’re coming with me.” “No, I have to go back.” "But you said — You told him—■” the tinman jerked his thumb backwards over his shoulder, “You told—” Moyra repeated patiently as one child to another, "I want to get down. I have to go back.” The tinman stopped his horse and Moyra climbed down. “Think you can make a fool of me,” said the tinman. Moyra turned without answering and went up the hill. “Good riddance of bad rubbish,” shouted the tinman. “By cripes, and she had half my dinner!” He watched her with little angry blue eyes. She walked slowly and wearily as if she were carrying a heavy burden, and once she put her hands over her face as a woman does when she weeps bitterly. Moyra’s husband had made himself a pot of (Continued on Page 5)

(By

TONI McGKATH

I think a thousand years ago In some dim, Chinese dwelling-place Of ancient gods with smiling mouths, Smooth faces slit with almond eyes, And monstrous feet and folded hands A wrinkled artist, bending low Over the lucent ivory Chiselled this melancholy face With agonising patience, till The shadowed visions of his soul, The strange calm and the wild unrest Which his deep musing gave to him And that sad ecstasy of peace He knew when muted violins Played ’neath the silver-weeping moon— Or his brief pangs of happiness As when he saw the sighing wind Scatter a fountain’s opal rain Over the thirsting lotus blooms At the pale ending of the day And thoughts that lingered in his mind Like dreams remembered after sleep Were graven by his skilful hands Into this young god’s weary face. Now in this grey-skied town of rain And storm-swept trees, and pointed spires Where yet the cold stone dwellings lack The rip’ning suns of centuries His beauty-tortured soul lives on Imprisoned in this mournful face Of aeon-mellowed ivory. For hidden in the placid smile His resignation lies, and still In the down-gazing, mournful eyes, Unshed, there stand eternal tears. SECOND PRIZE