(Inspired by R S Thomas)

Dipping his head the poet drank from the depths of his soul,

there in his woundedness lay memories of such pain,

Remember me they cry, we can wound again,

write us out, share our bane.

——–

Still,      he wrote,  and I’ve heard,

a despair sore, poems written, stored,

but a lost souls connected with his Keening one,

sources new strength like a bird chiming in a green tree.