That man, Prytherch, with the torn cap,
I saw him often, framed in the gap
Between two hazels with his sharp eyes,
Bright as thorns, watching the sunrise
Filling the valley with its pale yellow
Light, where the sheep and the lambs went haloed
With grey mist lifting from the dew.
Or was it a likeness that the twigs drew
With bold pencilling upon that bare
Piece of sky? For he's still there
At early morning, when the light is right
And I look up suddenly at a bird's flight.
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου