To A Lady by R. S. Thomas

I don’t know

who I write to,

the frocked girl,

pretty but pert,

or the grown-up

mother, doll-less

but dolled. Nor

does death either

who, liquidating

her lungs, applying

irons to her heart,

discovers, astonished,

a being somewhere

between both, perter

than a child, prettier

than a parent, and

wiser than each

of them in the way

she treats his fumbling

familiarity with contempt.


by R. S. Thomas

from No Truce With The Furies (1995)


Published by


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

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s