morning has broken

Morning Has Broken

The sea is flat and motionless shiny grey as a cannon
at a military museum Saturday afternoon, sun, storm
rain or storm will never bring life back to its surface.
The shoreline too is grey and there are tanks around
from a big battle that raged when a plane was shot
out of the sky; a world war began destroying dreams
of thousand years of peace. The strand of life is filled
with heaps of ashen bones and untold horrors.

On Morpheus´s wings I land softly outside a small
lemon hued house, enter and make a cup of coffee.
As I sip golden brew the colours are slowly returning,
the sky is summer blue with a few streaks of white,
remnants of night´s grief. Sun is yellow, so is straw,
but the olive tree is as green as the ocean used to be.