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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