O sea son of wave, great spouting Thomas,
In Laugharne’s lapped bay
And milky wood
At God speeded end
You made, I feel, good peace
With your fountainhead true muse:
Soothing the wound in your side;
Transcending ego’s stunning clash
Of symbols –
Grave manwomb of war;
Regaining timelessness
And integrity.
Hence your infinite compassion
For the doomed, live-dead, longing,
Infertile women
Entombed in the white giant’s thigh;
For your proud, blind, dying,
Mumstruck dad;
For all Earth’s deathwound
Though ever recycled offspring;
And those kind, moony, tall
Short tales
And dazzling, sunlit parables
Of childhood’s airloomed eternity.
Jerusalem
21 April 2009