It was quiet. What had the sentry
to cry, but that it was the ninth hour
and all was not well? The darkness
begun to lift, but it was not the mind
was illumined. The carpenter
had done his work well to sustain
the carpenter’s burden; the Cross an example
of the power of art to transcend timber.
by R. S. Thomas
from Laboratories of the Spirit (1975)
The churchyard’s quiet on a Sunday,
Under an oak board I shall rest.
Come to me, my dearest, running,
Come to your mama, like a guest.
Over the stream and hillside run,
So the slow grown-ups disappear;
From far, the keen eyes of my son
Will recognize my cross. My dear,
I know I can’t expect you to
Remember me, who neither kissed
And dandled you, nor scolded you,
Nor took you to the eucharist.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1915)
– from Белая стая (White Flock, 1917) translation by D. M. Thomas
Where the lamb died
a bird sings.
Where a soul perishes
what music? The cross
is an old-fashioned
weapon, but its bow
is drawn unerringly
against the heart.
by R.S. Thomas
from Mass for Hard Times (1992)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 