R.S. Thomas Archives - Dreaming Beneath the Spires

It was like a Church to me: Port Meadow, Oxford, at Sunset

Port Meadow (Oxford) at Sunset.

Port Meadow (Oxford) at Sunset.

I walked last night on Port Meadow. An extraordinary experience! The blazing ball of sun slowly floated into the Thames, colouring it crimson.

An amazing natural event I have too often missed! Spectacular beauty lavished on anyone who would take a few minutes to observe it.

Wild geese arrived honking, with a beating of wings, settling in to their night homes on the river. Seagulls flew overhead, dropping shells, having eaten the mussel.

Graceful swans with impossibly elongated necks tucked them under their wings, ready to sleep. Baby ducks followed their mothers. Golden retrievers bounded.

There was perfect peace.

The sky stretched huge massive and endless over the flat expanse of Port Meadow. It reminded me of the Big Sky when we drove through Montana.

And I kept thinking:
The Heavens declare the glory of God
The firmament shows forth the work of his hands
Day after day they pour forth speech;
night after night they reveal knowledge.
They have no speech, they use no words;
Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
their words to the ends of the world. (Psalm 19)

Port Meadow (Oxford) at Sunset.

And here’s a poem by R. S. Thomas, about a similar experience

The Moor

It was like a church to me.
I entered it on soft foot,
Breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God there was made himself felt,
Not listened to, in clean colours
That brought a moistening of the eye,
In a movement of the wind over grass.

There were no prayers said. But stillness
Of the heart’s passions — that was praise
Enough; and the mind’s cession
Of its kingdom. I walked on,
Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
And broke on me generously as bread.

Poems on Marriage from Wendell Berry and R. S. Thomas

By Anita Mathias

R.S. Thomas

Anniversary
Nineteen years now
Under the same roof
Eating our bread,
Using the same air:
Sighing, if one sighs,
Meeting the other’s
Words with a look
That thaws suspicion.

Nineteen years now
Sharing life’s table,
And not to be first
To call the meal long
We balance it thoughtfully
On the tip of the tongue.
Careful to maintain
The strict palate.

Nineteen years now
Keeping simple house.
Opening the door
To friend and stranger;
Opening the womb
Softly to let enter
The one child
With his huge hunger.

R.S. Thomas

A Marriage

We met
under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed,
love’s moment
in a world in
servitude to time.
She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
‘Come.’ said death,
choosing her as his
partner for
the last dance. And she,
who in life
had done everything
with a bird’s grace,
opened her bill now
for the shedding
of one sigh no
heavier than a feather.

– RS Thomas, ‘A Marriage’,

The Blue Robe

How joyful to be together, alone
as when we first were joined
in our little house by the river
long ago, except that now we know

each other, as we did not then;
and now instead of two stories fumbling
to meet, we belong to one story
that the two, joining, made. And now

we touch each other with the tenderness
of mortals, who know themselves:
how joyful to feel the heart quake

at the sight of a grandmother,
old friend in the morning light,
beautiful in her blue robe!

Wendell Berry

ALIVE BY R.S. THOMAS, the priest-poet of the Welsh Hills

By Anita Mathias

Alive.

It is alive. It is you,

God. Looking out I can see

no death. The earth moves, the

sea moves, the wind goes

on its exuberant

journeys. Many creatures

reflect you, the flowers

your colour, the tides the precision

of your calculations. There

is nothing too ample

for you to overflow, nothing

so small that your workmanship

is not revealed. I listen

and it is you speaking.

I find the place where you lay

warm. At night, if I waken,

there are the sleepless conurbations

of the stars. The darkness

is the deepening shadow

of your presence; the silence a

process in the metabolism

of the being of love.