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?