The Moon in Lleyn

The last quarter of the moon
of Jesus gives way
to the dark; the serpent
digests the egg. Here
on my knees in this stone
church, that is full only
of the silent congregation
of shadows and the sea's
sound, it is easy to believe
that Yeats was right. Just as though
choirs had not sung, shells
have swallowed them; the tide laps
at the Bible; the bell fetches
no people to the brittle miracle
of the bread. The sand is waiting
for the running back ofthe grains
in the wall into its blond
glass. Religion is over, and
what will emerge from the body
of the new moon, no one
can say.
But a voice sounds
in my ear: Why so fast,
mortal? These very seas
are baptised. The parish
has a saint's name time cannot
unfrock. In cities that
have outgrown their promise people
are becoming pilgrims
again, if not to this place,
then to the recreation of it
in their own spirit. You must remain
kneeling. Even as the moon
making its way through the earth's
cumbersome shadow, prayer, too,
has its phases.


R S Thomas

Quo vadis

I've never been one for New Year's resolutions. There is something however about taking time to reflect, think back and look forward. Right now it's this poem, rather than 2009 that's making me do this.


Directions

In this desert of language
we find ourselves in,
with a signpost with
the word God worn away,
and the distance.

Pity the simpleton,
with his mouth open crying
"How far is it to God?"
And the wise acre says
"Where you were, friend"

You know that smile,
glossy as the machine
that thinks it has
outpaced belief.
I'm one of those,

who sees from the arms
open to embrace the future,
the shadow of the cross
fall on the smoothest of surfaces,
causing me to stumble.


- RS Thomas