R. S. THOMAS.

Ninetieth birthday

You go up the long track

That will take a car, but is best walked

On slow foot, noting the lichen

That writes history on the page

Of the grey rock. Trees are about you

At first, but yield to th green bracken,

The nightjar's house: you can hear it spin

On warm evenings; it is still now

In the noonday heat, only the lesser

Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat

And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,

You will pause for breath and the far sea's

Signal will flash, till you turn again

To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.

And there at the top that old woman,

Born almost a century back

In that stone farm, awaits your coming;

Waits for the news of the lost village

She thinks she knows, a place that exists

In her memory only.

                           You bring her greeting

And praise for having lasted so long

With time's knife shaving the bone.

Yet no bridge joins her own

World with yours, all you can do

Is lean kindly across the abyss

To hear words that were once wise.