wordsout by godfrey rust
The sailing of the ark  < 44 of 45


Eleven thirty. Tessa lies with eyes closed
fighting a fever, mine open at my book wrestling

with the Welsh priest-poet's images of God.
The little girl comes in, her pale face

serious: "I want a cuddle"—she wriggles
down into the gap between us. "Did you have

a bad dream?" "Yes." "What was it about?"
"I don't know." She lies there still, the warmth

of our closeness all the comforting she needs.
And I don't know what it was about,

the guilt, the bargaining, all that wasted time
spent second-guessing God: the Father loves us

as I love Emma and Joel—not because
they're good or clever, but because they're mine.

the Welsh priest-poet R S Thomas.