No Answer

Speak, farmer, over the green sod
To us forsaken by the sham gods
In whom we trusted. Where has the spring gone?
Is it always autumn even in the fields’
Primitive quiet in which you work?

Speak, friend; does not the earth renew
Its broken pattern, building again
Its green citadels, razed by the winds
And gaunt frosts, quarrying the face
Of the grim heavens for the springs ore?
Born here and reared, have you no proof
Of the slow summers ultimate reign?

Silence, silence; only the eyes’
Inscrutable grayness turned to mine;
And the hand’s gesture, vague as a branch,
Rowing forever the wind’s stream.

-- R. S. Thomas (1913-2000), Anglican priest and Welsh poet, from Uncollected Poems.