Cyril Hodges
the pioneer
Wind-shaken, pensive on our western edge of dreams,
I can imagine your community, streams from the sin
Of our pollution, cleaned and flowing to forgiving sea.
The hard hands of the farmer, fisherman, are gentle with
The strange refusal of an arid wealth, and roughly bless
You with a glass of strong Welsh beer for your future health.
You must be rock and iron in the challenge of this thing
Evolved out of your loneliness. The shock of being what
You scrawled upon the stone of deeper thought must be withstood
By labour, sweeping storms of hard desire, your will alone.
Were but the heart my single arbiter, I would be firm
And solid at your side upon that weather-beaten coast,
But can supply only a ghost of sympathy, a pale
Half-envious echo of your high and human pride.
Page(s) 32
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