Hunger was lonliness, betrayed
By the pitiless candour of the stars’
Talk, in an old byre he prayed
Not for food; to pray was to know
Waking from a dark dream to find
The white loaf on the white snow;
Not for warmth, warmth brought the rain’s
Blurring of the essential point
Of ice probing his raw pain.
He prayed for love, love that would share
His rags’ secret; rising he broke
Like sun crumbling the gold air
The live bread for the starved folk.
by R. S. Thomas
from Poetry For Supper (1958)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 