Monday, 23 March 2020

RS Thoms?

RS Thomas?
Take this one poem,
or that one poem;
but let’s say this one - 
stranded upon it
like Robinson Crusoe 
with no man Friday. 
All the looking done and now 
sitting forlorn, on this chest of gold. 
Black gold with widow spiders
set in cold tears. 
The end of the road. 
A poem to die in. 
At last I need look no further.

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