Barddoniaeth am y Nant
Nant Gwrtheyrn
I listen to the echoes
of John Jones crying: 'God
is not good, ' and of his wife
correcting him: 'Hush, John.'
'The cuckoo returns
to Gwrtheyrn, contradicting
John Jones, within its voice
bluebells tolling over
the blue sea. There is work
here still, quarrying
for an ancient language
to bring it to the light
from under the years'
dust covering it. Men,
with no palate for fine
words, they helped them down
with their sweat, spitting
them out later in what
served them for prayer. Was
it for this God numbered
their days? Where once pick-
axes would question, now
only the stream ticks, telling
a still time to listeners
at their text-books. Turning
its back on the world,
contemplating without boredom
unchanging horizons this place
knows a truth, for here
is the resurrection
of things. One after one
they arise in answer
to names they are called by,
standing around, shining,
by brief graves from whose hold
willing hands have released them.
R. S. Thomas