There is always
     laughter out of the speeding
     vehicles for the man
     who is still, half-way though he be
     in a better direction. From receding
     horizons he has withdrawn
     his mind for greater repose
     on an inner perspective,
     where love is the bridge between
     thought and time. Consumers
     of distance at vast cost,
     what do they know of the green
     twig with which he divines,
     where life balances excess
     of death, the bottomless
     water that is the soul's glass?

From "This One," R. S. Thomas