January by R. S. Thomas

The fox drags its wounded belly

Over the snow, the crimson seeds

Of blood burst with a mild explosion,

Soft as excrement, bold as roses.

 

Over the snow that feels no pity,

Whose white hands can give no healing,

The fox drags its wounded belly.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from Song At The Year’s Turning (1955)

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mrhearne

Russian and Welsh poetry uploaded on alternating weeks. Occasionally other poems. Occasionally reviews of literature, films, theatre, food and drink. Any support via comments, likes, follows and subscribing is appreciated.

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