fragments of an attempted writing.

He is that great void
we must enter, calling
to one another on our way
in the direction from which
he blows. What matter
if we should never arrive
to breed or to winter
in the climate of our conception?

Enough we have been given wings
and a needle in the mind
to respond to his bleak north.

There are times even at the Pole
when he, too, pauses in his withdrawal
so that it is light there all night long.

- R.S. Thomas, Collected Later Poems, 1988-2000, pg. 122.

1 comment:

  1. Owen, I am very glad to see this new blog's shape and direction. I've been reading and appreciating your choices and discussions and perspectives for a couple of years on the other one. In these crazed times I have very often found in it balm for the soul. With thanks and best wishes.


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