Monday, 30 November 2020

RS Thomas

 RS Thomas

the splinter under my nail 

clawing at this howling wind 

paged as dry as fire ash

  take your foot of my pen your wait

off my outlook on the rain’s blear

the unscalable north face of your verse

my ineptitude at finding just one handhold 

on the crumbling scree of the people you

pain so elegantly in their inelegance

five poems in and i am sunk drunk

i wish you could have met me

and lent me your handkerchief 

today it is all too late

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