Saturday, March 31, 2018

The Coming by RS Thomas









The Coming RS Thomas (1913-2000) 


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 

Cast their shadows: a bright 

Serpent, a river 

Uncoiled itself, radiant 

With slime. 

On a bare 

Hill a bare tree saddened 

The sky. Many People 

Held out their thin arms 

To it, as though waiting 

For a vanished April 

To return to its crossed 

Boughs. The son watched 

Them. Let me go there, he said.





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