On the A488
I followed the ghost of R S Thomas
off the bypass, a long route into Wales.
He was driving a black Austin, a steady 30
on the rising and falling road. He glowered
at a village Fun Day, crawled through Pontesbury,
Minsterley. Near Hyssington, a watchful raptor
on a pole, a small offering of runner beans
laid out on a white table at the road-side.
After the castle of Clun, he reached in as ghosts
will do, turned off the loud music of my radio.
I had a workshop to get to, I was losing my way,
there were religious poems to discuss.
Beyond New Invention we crossed into Powys.
At a dark lay-by he pulled in to let me pass.