Author: R S Thomas

‘Listen, now, verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse […]

Who put that crease in your soul, Davies, ready this fine morning For the staid chapel, where the Book’s frown […]

Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws, Or marking the […]

All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter? I spoke a tongue that was passed on To me in the […]

To live in Wales is to be conscious At dusk of the spilled blood That went into the making of […]

She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer Your quick […]

My father is dead. I who am look at him Who is not, as once he Went looking for me […]

Dear parents, I forgive you my life, Begotten in a drab town, The intention was good; Passing the street now, […]

Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed, Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills, Who pens a […]

It seems wrong that out of this bird, Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should […]