We are a people living in shells and moving <br />Crablike; reticent, awkward, deeply suspicious; <br />Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids, <br />Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us, <br />Afraid lest someone weep in the railway train. <br /> <br />We are coiled and clenched like a foetus clad in armour. <br />We hold our hearts for fear they fly like eagles. <br />We grasp our tongues for fear they cry like trumpets. <br />We listen to our own footsteps. We look both ways <br />Before we cross the silent empty road. <br /> <br />We are a people easily made uneasy, <br />Especially wary of praise, of passion, of scarlet <br />Cloaks, of gesturing hands, of the smiling stranger <br />In the alien hat who talks to all or the other <br />In the unfamiliar coat who talks to none. <br /> <br />We are afraid of too-cold thought or too-hot <br />Blood, of the opening of long-shut shafts or cupboards, <br />Of light in caves, of X-rays, probes, unclothing <br />Of emotion, intolerable revelation <br />Of lust in the light, of love in the palm of the hand. <br /> <br />We are afraid of, one day on a sunny morning, <br />Meeting ourselves or another without the usual <br />Outer sheath, the comfortable conversation, <br />And saying all, all, all we did not mean to, <br />All, all, all we did not know we meant. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Stephen Fryer<br /><br />Arthur Seymour John Tessimond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-british-2/
