The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address.
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.

Never think to surprise them.
Your face approaching ever
so friendly is the white flag
they ignore. There is no truce

with the furies. A mirror’s temperature
is always at zero. It is ice
in the veins. Its camera
is an X-ray. It is a chalice

held out to you in
silent communion, where graspingly
you partake of a shifting
identity never your own.

– from No Truce with the Furies by RS Thomas
I haven’t written much lately, or more accurately, I haven’t revised anything that I like enough to post here. Instead, I offer this poem by RS Thomas.