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,