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)

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