R.S. THOMAS
Moorland

It is beautiful and still;
               the air rarefied
as the interior of a cathedral

expecting a presence. It is where, also,
               the harrier occurs,
materialising from nothing, snow-

soft, but with claws of fire,
               quartering the bare earth
for the prey that escapes it;

hovering over the incipient
               scream, here a moment, then
not here, like my belief in God.