Tenancies by R.S. Thomas

 This is pain's landscape.
 A savage agriculture is practised
 Here; every farm has its
 Grandfather or grandmother, gnarled hands
 On the cheque-book, a long, slow
 Pull on the placenta about the neck.
 Old lips monopolise the talk
 When a friend calls. The children listen
 From the kitchen; the children march
 With angry patience against the dawn.
 They are waiting for someone to die
 Whose name is as bitter as the soil
 They handle. In clear pools
 In the furrows they watch themselves grow old
 To the terrible accompaniment of the song
 Of the blackbird, that promises them love.
 
 
By R.S. Thomas
 from Not That He Brought Flowers (1968)  

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Curlew by Gillian Clarke

She dips her bill in the rim of the sea.

Her beak is the ellipse

of a world much smaller

than that far section of the sea’s

circumference. A curve enough to calculate

the field’s circle and its heart

of eggs in the cold grass.

 

All day while I scythed my territory

out of nettles, laid claim to my cantref,

she has cut her share of sky. Her song bubbles

long as a plane trail from her savage mouth.

I clean the blade with newspaper. Dusk blurs

circle within circle till there’s nothing left

but the egg pulsing in the dark against her ribs.

For each of us the possessed space contracts

to the nest’s heat, the blood’s small cicuit.

 

by Gillian Clarke

from The Sundial (Gwasg Gomer, 1978)

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Fun fact: A cantref was a medieval Welsh land division, particularly important in the administration of Welsh law.