Things exist rooted in the flesh, Stone, tree and flower. Even while you sleep In your low room, the dark moor exerts Its pressure on the timbers. Space and time Are not the mathematics that your will Imposes, but a green calendar Your heart observes; how else could you Find your way home or know when to die With the slow patience of the men who raised This landmark in the moor’s deep tides?
R.S. Thomas: Green Categories
ReplyDeleteThings exist rooted in the flesh,
Stone, tree and flower. Even while you sleep
In your low room, the dark moor exerts
Its pressure on the timbers. Space and time
Are not the mathematics that your will
Imposes, but a green calendar
Your heart observes; how else could you
Find your way home or know when to die
With the slow patience of the men who raised
This landmark in the moor’s deep tides?