Text of poem - Brethren. Here I have no neighbours, unless those furthest off are closest to me, coloured brethren, unreasonably insisting on their palms' paleness, the identity of our shadows. I let my prayers deputise for my assistance: Tennyson's fountain irrigating nothing but the waterless territory of my conscience. My immunity in a racked world is a perquisite not for enjoyment. Over my shoulder from immaculate pools, as I stare down, stare all those faces behind bars. The tide changes with the punctuality of the guard changing, waves bayonet-bright, long-toothed as the salivating dogs are. Ilook at my thermometer at night that promises the frost's tinsel, that for others registers the degree below zero to which hope can fall.

‘Brethren’ - #RSThomas
(The Poetry Book Society Anthology 1988-1989, Hutchinson)
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