pinned? or pining?

A Blackbird Singing
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.

You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.

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.

~RS Thomas ~

he will not come anymore

NB (take note) ~ please, regarding comments ... no pity ... no sorries ... that's not why i posted this. i'm not into pity parties, they're pointless and way too messy for my liking. and please, don't ask me what happened. telling that story out loud serves no useful purpose. the story tells itself in my heart everyday. and that is enough.



will the sun ever break thru?
possibly, quite possibly.
yet ... its difficult to imagine,
when one feels
the cruel and stoney chill
of a dark night.
the darkest of nights ~
one which rears his head every year
in October ~
the month of my youngest son's birth
and also, ironically,
the month of his very painful and permanent
departure from me.
ten days from now he would turn 18 years old.
a tall shadows looms
as i contemplate the could haves ~
how might that flower have unfurled ...
what fruit could it have borne?

expand the post to read the poem, Pieta by RS Thomas


Always the same hills
Crowd the horizon,
Remote witnesses
Of the still scene.

And in the foreground
The tall Cross,
Sombre, untenanted,
Aches for the Body
That is back in the cradle
Of a maid’s arms.

RS Thomas