There are nights that are so still

That I can hear the small owl calling

Far off, and a fox barking

miles away. It is then that I lie

in the lean hours awake, listening

to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic,

rising and  falling, rising and falling,

wave on wave on the long shore,

by the village that is without light

and companionless. And the thought comes

of that other being who is awake too,

letting our prayers beat on him,

not like this for a few hours,

but for days, years, for eternity.

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), The Echoes Return Slow, 1988.