A Process In The Weather Of The Heart
A
process
in
the
weather
of
the
heart
Turns
damp
to
dry;
the
golden
shot
Storms
in
the
freezing
tomb.
A
weather
in
the
quarter
of
the
veins
Turns
night
to
day;
blood
in
their
suns
Lights
up
the
living
worm.
A
process
in
the
eye
forewarns
The
bones
of
blindness;
and
the
womb
Drives
in
a
death
as
life
leaks
out.
A
darkness
in
the
weather
of
the
eye
Is
half
its
light;
the
fathomed
sea
Breaks
on
unangled
land.
The
seed
that
makes
a
forest
of
the
loin
Forks
half
its
fruit;
and
half
drops
down,
Slow
in
a
sleeping
wind.
A
weather
in
the
flesh
and
bone
Is
damp
and
dry;
the
quick
and
dead
Move
like
two
ghosts
before
the
eye.
A
process
in
the
weather
of
the
world
Turns
ghost
to
ghost;
each
mothered
child
Sits
in
their
double
shade.
A
process
blows
the
moon
into
the
sun,
Pulls
down
the
shabby
curtains
of
the
skin;
And
the
heart
gives
up
its
dead.
Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914, Swansea, Glamorgan [now in Swansea], Wales—died November 9, 1953, New York, New York, U.S.) Welsh poet and prose writer whose work is known for its comic exuberance, rhapsodic lilt, and pathos. His personal life, punctuated by reckless bouts of drinking, was notorious. Thomas spent his childhood in southwestern Wales. His father taught English at the Swansea grammar school, which in due course the boy attended. Because Dylan’s mother was a farmer’s daughter, he had a country home he could go to when on holiday. His poem “Fern Hill” (1946) describes its joys.