Deus Absconditus Poem by Gwilym Williams

Deus Absconditus



Sunday in Wales
and small white clouds are drifting over
the bleating sheep grazed on the hills
like prayers on the way to heaven.
The pessimistic metaphor R S Thomas (poet)
is preaching from the black pulpit -
painted black by his own hand:
'The Supreme Being will doubtless
fail to join us. Deus Absconditus.'
His flock has dwindled to a faithless few;
gloomy country folk with nothing more to do.

The hymns will be softly sung
and strangled in the wind's knot
before the church gate.

The sermon will be short
and unmemorable.

The muttered prayers
will barely move the grim lips.

Not one voice will reach those white clouds.

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