A little aside from the main road,
becalmed in a last-century greyness,
there is the chapel, ugly, without the appeal
to the tourist to stop his car
and visit it. The traffic goes by,
and the river goes by, and quick shadows
of clouds, too, and the chapel settles
a little deeper into the grass.
But here once on an evening like this,
in the darkness that was about
his hearers, a preacher caught fire
and burned steadily before them
with a strange light, so that they saw
the spendour of the barren mountains
about them and sang their amens
fiercely, narrow but saved
in a way that men are not now.
by R. S. Thomas
from Laboratories of the Spirit (1975)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 