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.