Telling us so much
it so much the more
withholds. Who was he?
The clothes a labourer's
clothes: coarse trousers, torn
jacket, a mole-skin
cap. But that volume
under the arm---a
hedge-poet, a scholar
by rushlight? We look
closer: no soil in
that eye, but light
generated by a
mind charging self
at its own sources.
Radiant soul, shrugging
the type's ignorance
off, he hastens towards
us, to the future
we inhabit and must
welcome him to, but
nervously, all too
aware of the discrepancy
with his expectations.
Back to R. S. Thomas
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.