Lore by R. S. Thomas

Job Davies, eighty-five

Winters old, and still alive

After the slow poison

and treachery of the seasons.


Miserable? Kick my arse!

It needs more than the rain’s hearse,

Wind-drawn to pull me off

The great perch of my laugh.


What’s living but courage?

Paunch full of hot porridge,

Nerves strengthened with tea,

Peat-black dawn found me


Mowing where the grass grew,

Bearded with golden dew.

Rhythm of the long scythe

Kept this tall frame lithe.


What to do? Stay green.

Never mind the machine,

Whose fuel is human souls.

Live large, man, and dream small.


by R.S. Thomas


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Poetry, theatre, literature, films, reviews and various other matters. Primarily Russian and Welsh subjects.

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