IKN

Hereditary sloth instructs me

On the road

Your humble scribe will spend the rest of this working week away from the comfortable office environment, visiting other places, meeting other people, doing other things. Posting on the blog will therefore be light.

Meanwhile, I’ve been on this Dylan Thomas kick recently and running a blog means that I don’t need to suffer alone, so…

Poem in October
Dylan Thomas, 1944
It was my
thirtieth year to heaven
     Woke to my hearing from harbour and
neighbour wood
        And the mussel pooled and the heron
                Priested shore
           The morning beckon
     With water praying and call of seagull and
rook
     And the knock of sailing boats on the
webbed wall
           Myself to set foot
                That second
        In the still sleeping town and set
forth.
        My birthday began with the water-
     Birds and the birds of the winged trees
flying my name
        Above the farms and the white horses
                And I rose
            In a rainy autumn
     And walked abroad in shower of all my days
     High tide and the heron dived when I took
the road
            Over the border
                And the gates
        Of the town closed as the town awoke.
        A springful of larks in a rolling
     Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming
with whistling
        Blackbirds and the sun of October
                Summery
            On the hill’s shoulder,
     Here were fond climates and sweet singers
suddenly
     Come in the morning where I wandered and
listened
            To the rain wringing
                Wind blow cold
        In the wood faraway under me.
        Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
     And over the sea wet church the size of a
snail
        With its horns through mist and the
castle
                Brown as owls
             But all the gardens
     Of spring and summer were blooming in the
tall tales
     Beyond the border and under the lark full
cloud.
             There could I marvel
                My birthday
        Away but the weather turned around.
        It turned away from the blithe country
     And down the other air and the blue altered
sky
        Streamed again a wonder of summer
                With apples
             Pears and red currants
     And I saw in the turning so clearly a
child’s
     Forgotten mornings when he walked with his
mother
             Through the parables
                Of sunlight
        And the legends of the green chapels
        And the twice told fields of infancy
     That his tears burned my cheeks and his
heart moved in mine.
        These were the woods the river and the
sea
                Where a boy
             In the listening
     Summertime of the dead whispered the truth
of his joy
     To the trees and the stones and the fish
in the tide.
             And the mystery
                Sang alive
        Still in the water and singing birds.
        And there could I marvel my birthday
     Away but the weather turned around. And
the true
        Joy of the long dead child sang burning
                In the sun.
             It was my thirtieth
        Year to heaven stood there then in the
summer noon
        Though the town below lay leaved with
October blood.
             O may my heart’s truth
                Still be sung
        On this high hill in a year’s turning.

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