To be crucified
again? To be made friends
with for his jeans and beard?
Gods are not put to death
any more. Their lot now
is with the ignored.
I think he still comes
stealthily as of old,
invisible as a mutation,
an echo of what the light
said, when nobody
attended; an impression
of eyes, quicker than
to be caught looking, but taken
on trust like flowers in the
dark country towards which we go.
by R. S. Thomas
from Experimenting with an Amen (1986)
I look. You look
Away. No colour,
No ruffling of the brow’s
Surface betrays
Your feeling. As though I
Were not here; as
Though you were your own
Mirror, you arrange yourself
For the play. My eyes’
Adjectives; the way that
I scan you; the
Conjunction the flesh
Needs – all these
Are as nothing
To you. Serene, cool,
Motionless, no statue
Could show less
The impression of
My regard. Madam, I
Grant the artistry
Of your part. Let us
Consider it, then,
A finished performance.
by R. S. Thomas
from H’m (1972)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 