Evening

.

The archer with time
as his arrow – has he broken
his strings that the rainbow
is so quiet over our village?

Let us stand, then, in the interval
of our wounding, till the silence
turn golden and love is
a moment eternally overflowing.

R S Thomas (link)
From No truce with the Furies, 1995
Collected Later Poems

archive – a list of all earlier posts

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