Sorry
by R. S.
Thomas
Dear
Parents,
I forgive
you my life,
Begotten in
a drab town,
The
intention was good;
Passing the
street now,
I see still
the remains of sunlight.
It was not
the bone buckled;
You gave me
enough food
To renew
myself.
It was the
mind's weight
Kept me
bent, as I grew tall.
It was not
your fault.
What should
have gone on,
Arrow aimed
from a tried bow
At a tried
target, has turned back,
Wounding
itself
With
questions you had not asked.
From 'The
Bread of Truth' (1963)
