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

colour. 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), H’m, 1972.