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.
They will go back as usual,
Watching carefully the last boat in.
One boat fewer in the morning.
Nothing that the eye takes in.