Geoffrey Thurley
Figure Two and the Colour White
Two sheep
lie under my hands
I stroke their
live white heads
don’t listen, dear, when
my hands ring in
the damp gloom
Two cities
feed an idea of moon
in my hardening mind
In the waters
of the brook a potter’s hands
fly round. I am reminded
of the greatest betrayer
whose hands
fed pigeons
Two owls
frighten my large
white face
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