Dylan Thomas On Ann Jones
He loved you as a boy,
Now he writes you,
Nature overwrites your coffin,
And that dark funeral lark;
He can express himself endlessly,
According to nature,
and according to all technology.
Even your corpse needs,
By the look on your face there,
Your faith shook you cold,
So now you speak,
But he will tell of your warmth,
Which the fern shall seed,
In church soil damp,
After the funeral.
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