Category Archives: Poetry

The Bright Field by R. S. Thomas I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it.  But that was the pearl of great price, the one field … Continue reading →

Hill Christmas by R. S. Thomas They came over the snow to the bread’s purer snow, fumbled it in their huge hands, put their lips to it like beasts, stared into the dark chalice where the wine shone, felt it sharp … Continue reading →

Pieta by R. S. Thomas Always the same hills Crowd the horizon. Remote witnesses Of the still scene. And in the foreground The tall Cross. Sombre, untenanted, Aches for the Body That is back in the cradle Of a maid’s … Continue reading →

In Church by R. S. Thomas Often I try To analyse the quality Of its silences.  Is this where God hides From my searching?  I have stopped to listen, After the few people have gone, To the air recomposing itself … Continue reading →

The Chapel by R. S. Thomas A little aside from the main road, becalmed in a last-century greyness, there is the chapel, ugly, without the appeal to the tourist to stop his car and visit it.  The traffic goes by, … Continue reading →

In a Country Church by R. S. Thomas  To one kneeling down no word came, Only the wind’ s song, saddening the lips Of the grave saints, rigid in glass; Or the dry whisper of unseen wings, Bats not angels, … Continue reading →

Covenant by R. S. Thomas   I feel sometimes       we are his penance for having made us.  He suffers in us and we partake       of his sufferings.  What to do, when it has been done       already?  Where … Continue reading →

The Coming by R. S. Thomas And God held in his hand A small globe.  Look, he said. The son looked.  Far off, As through water, he saw A scorched land of fierce Colour.  The light burned There; crusted buildings … Continue reading →

The Country Clergy by R. S. Thomas   I see them working in old rectories By the sun’s light, by candlelight, Venerable men, their black cloth A little dusty, a little green With holy mildew.  And yet their skulls, Ripening … Continue reading →

The Woman by R. S. Thomas So beautiful — God himself quailed at her approach: the long body curved like the horizon.  Why had he made her so?  How would it be, she said, leaning towards him, if instead of … Continue reading →

Chapel Deacon by R. S. Thomas  Who put that crease in your soul, Davies, ready this fine morning For the staid chapel, where the Book’s frown Sobers the sunlight?  Who taught you to pray And scheme at once, your eyes … Continue reading →