Morning

Morning


Blackly embroidered
against the morning sky,
three trees.

Filtering silver
through the mist; the sun
emerges into day.

But nothing seems
so real as in my dreams.

I grow into my death
it does not bind me:

the silence penetrates
my thoughts –
the face of Christ. In death
he conquered life,
turning even the shadows
into a source of light.

Death conquers life, life
death. The black and white,
merely the parts of one.

Under the endless weight of time
lies truth. Beneath the endless weight
of sky this earth. Waking
then walking through the quiet scene
the mist defines the dream
as truth.

Mist filtered early
morning sun
blackly embroidered trees.

The frosted earth
and silver sky destroys
all barriers.


Malcolm Evison