R. S. THOMAS.

Good.

The old man comes out on the hill

and looks down to recall earlier days

in the valley. He sees the stream shine,

the church stand, hears the litter of

children's voices. A chill in the flesh

tells him that death is not far off

now; it is the shadow under the great boughs

of life. His garden has herbs growing.

The kestrel goes by with fresh prey

in its claws. The wind scatters the scent

of wild beans? The tractor operates

on the earth's body. His grandson is there

ploughing; his young wife fetches him

cakes and tea and a dark smile. It is well.