The Parsonage

For R.S. Thomas

Even here the priest must hold our horror
in his hands, and

to surrender its shock, and drain the freight
glow and gloss of

while the land grays, and long green rolls of field
and bone elide

“See how he loved him!” And see that the news
is delivered quickly.

to prevent the prayer that fit him to time, storms
which we always

tumbling like broken glass across an empty moor,
the priestly cry,