The Belfry

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This poem by R. S. Thomas originally appeared in the December 1963 edition of The London Magazine, alongside poetry by Derek Walcott, Lawrence Durrell and C. Day Lewis.

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I have seen it standing up, grey,
Gaunt, as though no sunlight
Could ever thaw out the music
Of its great bell; terrible
In its own way, for religion
Is like that. There are times
When a black frost is upon
One’s whole being and the heart
In its bone belfry hangs and is dumb.

But who is to know? Always,
Even in winter in the cold
Of a stone church, on his knees
Someone is praying, whose prayers fall
Steadily through the hard spell
Of weather that is between God
And himself. Perhaps they are warm rain,
That brings the sun and afterwards flowers
On the raw graves and throbbing of bells.

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R. S. Thomas was a Welsh poet and Anglican priest.

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