The Coming
And God held in his hand a small globe.
Look he said.
The Son looked.
Far off, as through water,
He saw a scorched land of fierce color.
The light burned there.
Crusted buildings cast their shadows:
A bright Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant with slime.
On a bare hill a bare tree saddened the sky.
Many people held out their thin arms to it,
As though waiting for a vanished April
To return to its crossed boughs.
The Son watched them.
Let me go there, he said.
R. S. Thomas 1913-2000
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