THE COMING
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 bare 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.
Read more about R. S. Thomas.
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