The Moor

It was like a church to me
I entered it on soft feet,
Breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God was there made himself felt,
Not listened to, in clean colours
That brought a moistening of the eye,
In movement of the wind over grass.

There were no prayers said. But stillness
of the heart's passions -- that was praise
Enough; and the mind's cession
Of its kingdom. I walked on.
Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
And broke on me generously as bread.

                                 --R.S. THOMAS

[Photograph:  Buttresses of Tryfan, Caseg Fraith]