R. S. Thomas Carries His Wife Elsi Over The Threshold

He wishes he’d found a more spacious house

for his retirement years.

One that offered Elsi a wide-windowed studio

not the dark, cramped room

where she tucked her feet inside a cardboard box,

added a small electric stove to warm her legs.

She never complained; perfected the plumage

of robins, chaffinches, hedge sparrows,

stored finished paintings in damp-proof bags.

Out of doors, she ringed her fingers

in mulched earth; coddled roses and fuchsias,

harvested potatoes, carrots, white strawberries.

Newly returned from hospital, she flinches

as wind lifts a lace-drift of hair.

She looks up at him from her one good eye.

He braces his spine

against the ocean’s winter squalls,

scoops her into his arms.

By Sheila Jacob