The Spike Golden Jubilee Number May 1949
I — Cold Sky
There can be no birth under this sky,
The clear blue sky whose cold air
Cuts the remote hill from the harbour,
Defines the cabbage-tree
Portrays the willow as a simple silhouette.
It is not in this sky's power
To make the sap rise—
The sky knows nothing;
The sterile sky cannot create one leaf,
The sky cannot create one flower.
It is not here
That the trees and hills are linked
Beneath the drifting smoke of summer.
Or where the cold hard sand upon the endless beaches
Is warmed and sifted
And a thousand worlds run into one;
Not here does the mirage appear
Upon the scrubby plain,
Nor the quivering air take form above the land.
There can be no birth
Under the breath of the dismissing sun,
There can be no birth beneath this sky.