Easter. The grave-clothes of winter
are still here, but the sepulchre
is empty. A messenger
from the tomb tells us
how a stone has been rolled
from the mind and a tree lightens
the darkness with its blossom.
There are travellers upon the roads
who have heard music blown
from a bare bough and a child
tells us how the accident
of last year, a machine stranded
beside the way for lack of
petrol, is covered with flowers.
R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), No Truce with the Furies, 1995.