The Moon in Lleyn By R.S. Thomas The last quarter of the moon of Jesus gives way to the dark; the serpent digests the egg. Here on my knees in this stone church, that is full only of the silent congregation of shadows and the sea’s sound, it is easy to believe Yeats was right. Just as though choirs had not sung, shells have swallowed them; the tide laps at the Bible; the bell fetches no people to the brittle miracle of the bread. The sand is waiting for the running back of the grains in the wall into its blond glass. Religion is over, and what will emerge from the body of the new moon, no one can say. But a voice sounds in my ear: Why so fast, mortal? These very seas are baptized. The parish has a saint’s name time cannot unfrock. In cities that have outgrown their promise people are becoming pilgrims again, if not to this place, then to the recreation of it in their own spirits. You must remain kneeling. Even a...