Sunday Poem


They do not come with furred caps,
Smelling of maresmilk, scimitared,
Dour, as tellable as kites.

They live quietly next door,
Speak almost the same language,
Wear almost the same clothes,

Inside the walls. But
Do not think they lack
Precisely the same intentions.

by John Fowles
Poems– John Fowles
the Ecco Press, NY, 1973