rs thomas
from across the border of his grave
his arrows pierce my heart
from across the fields of his thoughts
he opens up to me through a creaky gate
brushed with stars he said that tree was
as i simply sit under it in wonder
and wander longingly through his words
mister wonderful such an empty sobriquet
i think he would entreat
for it is by the pulling of the weave
that the tapestry yields its golden threads
as the saga unfolds from his limited time
it starts to rain and the wind picks us up
again his grave overflows as it will
in perpetuity is a comfortable phrase
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