wordsout by godfrey rust
The
sailing of the ark < 44
of 45 >
44
Eleven
thirty. Tessa lies with eyes closed
fighting a fever, mine open at my book wrestling
with
the
Welsh priest-poet's images of God.
The little girl comes in, her pale face
serious:
"I want a cuddle"—she wriggles
down into the gap between us. "Did you have
a
bad
dream?" "Yes." "What was it about?"
"I don't know." She lies there still, the warmth
of
our
closeness all the comforting she needs.
And I don't know what it was about,
the
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.
.