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.