r.s.thomas
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| R.S.Thomas r.s.thomas |
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Tuesday, April 22, 2003 Easter. I approach the years' empty tomb. What has time done with itself? Is the news worth the communicating? The word's loincloth can remember little. A thin, cold wind blows from beyond the abysm that I gawp into. But supposing there were bones; the darkness illuminated like a museum? In glass cases I have peered at the brittle bundles, exonerating my conscience with mortality's tears. But here, true to my name, I have nothing to hold on to, an absence so much richer than a presence, offering instead of the skull's leer an impaled possibility for faith's fingertips to explore circa. 2000 posted by thomas | 4:59 PM |
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