A Tribute to R.S. Thomas
A poetry legend he was
A man of letters
Volumes there are to his credit
Exuding quiet character and inner strength
A man of poetic diversity
A man of conviction.
A great poet is gone
A prodigy in the art
For decades he wrote
With an unusual poetic spirt
With a proficiency scarcely equalled
Acclaimed as an unashamed patriot
A Welsh man to the core
An inspiration he was to many.
At a ripe old age
The inevitable happened
As the invincible claw pointed at him
In a twinkle the poetic giant fell
Fell never to write again.
Poverty a contention
Creeping in allowed or disallowed
Its grip to establish
Spreading out its roots of misery
The nutrient to sap
Symbolising the lack that drains
The lack that the lacking
A paradox of life is.
Poverty creates a sharp line
A band of demarcation between humans
Between humans world wide.
In poverty were some conceived
In poverty were they nurtured
They sucked the breast of poverty
They were the products of poverty
And may yet be without hope.
Poverty varies in degree
Written boldly on the poor of poor
Can be perceived by the sensitive
The sensitive and the observant.
Poverty carries a stigma
Poverty can make one foolish
It constitutes immense damage
To the body, emotion and soul of the afflicted.
Pushes like a compelling force
The odd to do
Striving against will, the line to draw.
Left without an option
The plunge is taken
And the die is cast
Leaving the perplexity to unfold
Unfold, unfold, to unfold.
The Silent Evening Cloud
The silent evening cloud
A cloud clad in beauty of beauty
Over above it hangs loosely.
Blue and white
Quiet and gentle
It drifts under control
Control of the unseen hand.
In the lofty heights of the sky
It drifts majestically as innocent
What a beauty it portrays as eyes behold
A beauty natural but unfading.
So see I the cloud above
Before it is hidden by nightfall
When perception becomes dull
And the eyelids become droopy.