Saturday 13 April 2019

Dear old RS.

Dear old RS. 

Dear, old, and dead RS Thomas man. 
Still you palm the back of my hand,
as unready as yesterday for today’s
calling of the wild words that have
gone to earth again 
in the hedgerows of my mind. 
You move my arthritic thoughts to
finger the Braille of the blind page,
and having wrought my reluctance 
to accept the divine, you guide and
trowel my poem into the wrinkles
of the straightened line.

 ‘Divine?’ Yes, at long last, I give you 
such utterance, you, on your knees for me,
on the cold stone floor of my unbelief 
that I could ever say now, the things 
that you said then, while I carp on 
and on about the speed of youth. 
Alas, I have to say that your dictation 
seems like a plagiarism to me, 
whose only gift was to open 
my mind and let your words soak in. 

Stop! Stop now. 
And now I address myself, for you
are long gone, way past the last peninsula,
to fly with the birds over the indifferent sea. 
And me? I need to think this through,
for when the sun comes up 
decide I must; we must.
Do we plough this furrow?
Release the hens from the wild pen 
in your clouds. Or do we not?
For not would be the end for us;
would it not?





1 comment:

  1. To have brought one poem safely to harbour
    From such horizons is not now to be scorned.

    ReplyDelete