Why is the roof of this old shack painted. Is it a hope that something old can made new again?
Against the dark, lifeless woodland
An
old shack stands.
Camouflaged
against the winter greys of bark
From
which it came.
It
would seem invisible,
But
for the azure sky that gives it form
Against
a landscape, dead
And
in repose.
All
is old and done,
Weary
of the growing and of the standing.
The
once green grass, bleached white by winter,
Whispers
mournfully - the ghost is given up.
Lying
against the darkened breast for final comfort
At
its parent’s end,
The
shack belies the power of winter’s killing-breath.
The
crimson roof, new-painted,
Starker
than all the colours in the wood, the earth, the sky,
Declares
redemption -
The
old shall become new,
The
mortal shall put on immortality.
