I saw them when I opened the caravan curtains:
hares boxing.
At dawn on the gravel
there they were, two jack hares standing up like firedogs,
or the scourgers who lassoed Christ's legs
and so tied themselves to him for ever,
the scourgers who are pistolwhipping the beardless Christ
there on the pulpit of St John's,
my two jack hares
beside this caravan.

Every evening I look west and say
redemption must be on its way.
It's in the red, it's in the reef, in the ray
as sunset swarms over Gower
and is gone.

The scientists were right
but so was RS.
                         Resurrection
is in the reactor.
...