The Village by R. S. Thomas

Scarcely a street, too few houses

To merit the title; just a way between

The one tavern and the one shop

That leads nowhere and fails at the top

Of the short hill, eaten away

By long erosion of the green tide

Of grass creeping perpetually nearer

This last outpost of time past.

 

So little happens; the black dog

Cracking his fleas in the hot sun

Is history. Yet the girl who crosses

From door to door moves to a scale

Beyond the bland day’s two dimensions.

 

Stay, then, village, for round you spins

On slow axis a world as vast

And meaningful as any poised

By great Plato’s solitary mind.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from Song At The Year’s Turning (1955)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com 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