Text of poem - Groping. Moving away is only to the boundaries of the self. Better to stay here, I said, leaving the horizons clear. The best journey to make is inward. It is the interior that calls. Eliot heard it. Wordsworth turned from the great hills of the north to the precipice of his own mind, and let himself down for the poetry stranded on the bare ledges. For some it is all darkness; for me, too, it is dark. But there are hands there I can take, voices to hear solider than the echoes without. And sometimes a strange light shines, purer than the moon, casting no shadow, that is the halo upon the bones of the pioneers who died for truth.
‘Groping’ - #RSThomas
(Frequencies, Macmillan)
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