LIVE LARGE
AND
DREAM SMALL
("LORE" BY R.S.THOMAS)
Job Davies, eighty-five
Winters old, and still alive
After the slow poison
And treachery of the seasons.
Miserable? Kick my arse!
It needs more than rain's hearse
Wind-drawn to pull me off
The great perch of my laugh.
What's better than courage?
Paunch full of hot porridge.
Nerves strengthened with tea,
Peat black - dawn found me
Mowing where the grass grew,
Bearded with golden dew.
Rhythm of long scythe
Kept this tall frame lithe.
What to do? Stay green.
Never mind the machine,
Whose fuel is human souls.
Live large, man, and dream small...
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