Why, then, are my hands red with the blood of so many dead? Is this where I was misled? - R. S. Thomas

A slow singer, but loading each phrase With history’s overtones, love, joy And grief learned by his dark tribe In other orchards and passed on Instinctively as they are now, But fresh always with new tears.

Deliver me from the long drought of the mind. Let leaves from the deciduous Cross fall on us, washing us clean, turning our autumn to gold by the affluence of their fountain.

There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon