The Lonely Farmer

"Poor hill farmer astray in the grass;

There came a movement and he look up, but

All that he saw was the wind pass.

There was a sound of voices on the air,

But where, where? It was only the glib stream talking

Softly to itself. And once when he was walking

Along a lane in spring he was deceived

By a shrill whistle coming through the leaves;

Wait a minute, wait a minute-four swift notes;

He turned, and it was nothing, only a thrush

In the thorn bushes easing its throat.

He swore at himself for paying heed,

The poor hill farmer, so often again

Stopping, staring, listening, in vain,

His ear betrayed by the heart's need".


The Lonely Farmer
R.S. Thomas