I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
of great price, the one field that

Davies thought life was long;
there was a sameness in the song.
Pugh thought it all too brief,
the fruit ripe before the leaf
turned. How is it with you

It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of

‘Poems from prison! About
what?’
‘Life and God.’ ‘God
in prison? Friend, you trifle
with me. His face, perhaps,

They see you as they see you,
A poor farmer with no name,
Ploughing cloudward, sowing the wi
With squalls of gulls at the day’s
To me you are Prytherch, the man

England, what have you done to mak
My fathers used a stranger to my l
An offence to the ear, a shackle o
That would fit new thoughts to an
Answer me now. The workshop where

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage

For the first twenty years you are
Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour
You are not born yet. It’s the ne
You cut your teeth on to emerge sm
For your brash courtship of the mu

In Wales there are jewels
To gather, but with the eye
Only. A hill lights up
Suddenly; a field trembles
With colour and goes out

Coming home was to that:
The white house in the cool grass
Membraned with shadow, the bright
Of stream that was its looking—gla
And smoke growing above the roof