The Spike or Victoria University College Review 1945
The moon behind the willow-tree
Reminds me of a Chinese tale
Imprisoned in blue porcelain
Across her face I seem to see
Small figures hurrying to gain
The bridge's head and safety, pale
With terror, while in livid wrath
A third shape hurries in their path.
A wisp of cloud goes drifting by,
The small clear silhouettes grow dim
The branches of the willow-tree
Brush featherlike the moon's sharp rim
The little figures move, and then
The cloud melts, and they're still again.