And the cobbled water
Of the stream with the trout’s indelible
Shadows that winter
Has not erased – I walk it
Again under a clean
Sky with the fish, speckled like thrushes,
Silently singing among the weed’s
Branches.
I bring the heart
Not the mind to the interpretation
Of their music, letting the stream
Comb me, feeling it fresh
In my veins, revisiting the sources
That are as near now
As on the morning I set out from them.
by R. S. Thomas
from H’m (1972)
