thirty. Tessa lies with eyes closed
fighting a fever, mine open at my book wrestling
Welsh priest-poet's images of God.
The little girl comes in, her pale face
"I want a cuddle"—she wriggles
down into the gap between us. "Did you have
dream?" "Yes." "What was it about?"
"I don't know." She lies there still, the warmth
closeness all the comforting she needs.
And I don't know what it was about,
guilt, the bargaining, all that wasted time
spent second-guessing God: the Father loves us
as I love
Emma and Joel—not because
they're good or clever, but because they're mine.
the Welsh priest-poet R S Thomas.