Salthouse
Two have slipped through the sky
On a yellow February.
Nothing but the raddled sea
The mouth drained, the heart empty.
No apparition, no gold, no strange bird.
No stone mysteriously turned.
Nothing but the psalmody of villages:
Newgate, Kelling, Bodham Street.
Two men washed as if for sacrifice,
Laid on an opened sheet.
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They will go back as usual,
Watching carefully the last boat in.
One boat fewer in the morning.
Nothing that the eye takes in.
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