Scarcely a street, too few houses
To merit the title; just a way bet
The one tavern and the one shop
That leads nowhere and fails at th
Of the short hill, eaten away

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

All right, I was Welsh. Does it
I spoke a tongue that was passed o
To me in the place I happened to
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the yea

I look out over the timeless sea
over the head of one, calendar
to time’s passing, who is now open
at the last month, her hair wintry
Am I catalyst of her mettle that,

Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets
Accompaniment to the black kettle’

All my life
I was face to face
with her, at meal—times,
by the fire, even
in the ultimate intimacies

When I was a child and the soft f
Quietly as snow on the bare bough
My father brought me trout from th
From whose chill lips the water so
Dull grew their eyes, the beautifu

Men who have hardly uncurled
from their posture in the
womb. Naked. Heads bowed, not
in prayer, but in contemplation
of the earth they came from,

It seems wrong that out of this bi
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should
Such rich music, as though the not
Ore were changed to a rare metal

I was vicar of large things
in a small parish. Small-minded
I will not say, there were depths
in some of them I shrank back
from, wells that the word “God”