After R S Thomas

From my father a stammer
like a stick in the spokes of my speech.
A tired blink,
a need to have my bones
near the hill's bare stone.
An affection for the order of maps
and the chaos of bad weather.

From my mother
a sensitivity to the pain in the pleasure.
The eye's blue ore,
quiet moments beside a wet horse
drying in a rain-loud stable.
A joiner's lathe
turning fact into fable.

And from them both ---
a desire for what they forged
in their shared lives;
Testing it under the years' hard hammer,
red hot at its core,
cooled dark at its sides.