Saturday, December 3, 2022

Poem: “The Coming,” by: R. S. Thomas

 And God held in his hand A small Globe.

Look, he said.

The Son looked, far off.

As through water, he saw

A scorched land of fierce

Color. The light burned

There; crusted buildings

Cast their shadows; a bright

Serpent, a river

Uncoiled itself, radiant with slime.

 

On a bare

Hill a tree saddened

The sky. Many people

Held out their thin arms

To it, as though waiting

For a vanished April

To return to its crossed

Boughs. The son watched

Them. Let me go there, he said.

No comments:

Post a Comment