Sunday, 30 July 2023

RS Thomas

RS Thomas


the cold stones burn in the furnace of his heart

quenched and annealed his poetry

burns cold wet to touch

red hot we back way

the way he looked down 

the way he looked up

at them dying in their deaths

flying with his cloud-gated birds

over the grass whitening

seething as he scythed 

the winds that stir us all

under the moon tree’s shadows

of a turned page

in his cottage corpus

silence 

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