R. S. THOMAS

A Welshman to any Tourist

We've nothing vast to offer you, no deserts

Except the waste of thought

Forming from mind erosion;

No canyons where the pterodactyl's wing

Falls like a shadow.

the hills are fine, of course,

Bearded with water to suggest age

And pocked with caverns,

One being Arthur's dormitory;

He and his knights are the bright ore

That seams our history,

But shame has kept them late in bed.