Truth

(Found here)

He was in the fields, when I set out.

He was in the fields, when I came back.

In between, what long hours,

What centuries might have elapsed.

Did he look up? His arm half

Lifted was more to ward off

My foolishness. You will return,

He intimated; the heart's roots

Are here under this black soil

I labour at. A change of wind

Can bring the smooth town to a stop;

The grass whispers beneath the flags;

Every right word on your tongue

Has a green taste. It is the mind

Calling you, eager to paint

Its distances; but the truth's here,

Closer than the world will confess,

In this bare bone of life that I pick.

~R. S. Thomas